Romantic Idealism
by Meowmers
Summary: She falls in love with him when she's 12, but by the time she's 17 she wants him dead. For Tom Riddle, its vice versa. Tomione. AU. M for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: She falls in love with him when she's 12, but by the time she's 17 she wants him dead. For Tom Riddle, its visa versa. Tomione. M for a reason.**

Hermione sees Tom Riddle when she is 12 years old, and she falls in love.

She doesn't meet him so much as sees him, tucked away in the far corner of the library, head boy badge pinned to his chest, a mountain of books at his side. He is hunched over a large tome, his long, pale fingers threaded through his dark hair, his other hand drumming impatient fingers against the wooden tabletop. It was late, far later than she was allowed to be out—but she certainly hadn't expected to see anyone out, much less the head boy.

He didn't see her—Harry's invisibility cloak insured that—only continued to read, his teeth working distractedly at his lower lip, his eyes scanning obsessively over the text. The books he was reading had to be from the restricted section because she had never heard of them before. The titles—as she allowed herself near enough to read the spines of the books stacked beside him—implied that it was certainly a bit dark, but also complicated and she—she was absolutely smitten.

It was kind of pathetic.

His jaw twitched. His fingers stopped their drumming on the table and he raised his chin to stare at the empty space in front of him with a strange expression on his face.

She fled.

It's a bit pathetic, she knows, but his combination of painfully beautiful and unbelievably intelligent had only been rumor to her until she stumbled upon him in that library.

It was childish infatuation, she would later realize. The same infatuation that left her fawning over Lockhart—although her beloved professor had fallen on the back burner in light of her new obsession. It was silly, it was even cute depending how you looked at it. She blushed when she saw him, she watched him during meals where he sat at the Slytherin table, she defended him when people would complain about him deducting house points.

She even—while hiding and waiting for the effects of a contaminated polyjuice potion to wear off—recognized his shoes in the girls bathroom where Myrtle would die the next hour.

—

"It's gotta be Malfoy," Ron sneered, eyeing the pale boy across the great hall during lunchtime.

"We have no way of knowing that, Ron," Hermione scolded, but she couldn't help but continue glancing toward the table, waiting for a sign that he was right. "We have no way of knowing that this is even deliberate."

"It's only been muggle-borns so far," Harry commented quietly, "Paralyzed in the hospital wing and no one knows why."

Hermione clenched her jaw for a moment, remembering Collin with his camera raised, frozen in that hospital bed. He had been the first victim—of what, no one knew. But it was terrifying not only as a student watching it happen, but as a muggle-born awaiting their fate. "But we don't know," She stressed, "We can't go accusing Malfoy of having something to do with this when we don't even know if it's orchestrated by anyone."

"He threatened you," Ron snapped, "He looked you in the eye and told you that you would be next!"

"Quiet down!" She hissed, glancing nervously at the Slytherin table, "All we know is that students have been petrified—muggle-born students," She corrected at Harry's sharp look, "But other than their petrification, there's been nothing. No message, no threats—other than Malfoy's," She adjusted at Ron's reddening face, "We can't get ahead of ourselves"

"We're worried, 'Mione." Harry said, his hand resting on her shoulder, "We want to stop this before anything happens to you."

"Believe me," Hermione laughed nervously, "So do I." She picked at the food on her plate, the discussion ruining her appetite. Purely out of habit she sought out her crush at the Slytherin table, and was surprised to see him staring unamused at the very boy they had been talking about. Malfoy was animatedly talking about something—loudly, it looked like, but she was too far away to hear—and Tom Riddle watched him with thinly veiled annoyance. It made her smile a bit to see he hated Malfoy, too.

"How can you think of Riddle at a time like this?" Ron sneered, and Hermione blushed to the roots of her hair.

"I'm not thinking of Riddle," She snapped. Ron rolled his eyes, "I'm not!"

"Riddle doesn't seem that bad," Harry defended her half-heartedly, his eyes still watching Malfoy, "My mom says that not all Slytherins are that bad."

"Yeah, well," Ron grumbled, "Right now I don't think any of them should be trusted."

Hermione knew he was probably right.

"I wish there was a way we could just…sneak in there and figure it out from the inside," Harry griped, pushing his plate away as he spoke. It seemed he had lost his appetite as well, but Ron continued to shovel forkfuls of food into his mouth as he nodded in agreement.

Hermione hesitated, drawing a finger across her lower lip as she thought, before she hurriedly gathered her things and stood, "I'll see you guys later,"

"Hermione wait!" Harry called, "We'll go with you!"

"I'm just going to the library," She assured, "I'll see you in class—I just have an idea." He nodded, his hand finding hers and giving it a comforting squeeze before letting her go.

"Try not to get too distracted if you see Riddle there," Ron spat, and Hermione glared at him with all the venom she could muster, then spun on her heel and left.

"Let off her," She heard Harry scold him, but she was too far away to hear the rest.

She did allow herself a glance at the Slytherin table before she left. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart started beating so wildly she could think of nothing to do other than scurry out of that hall like a clumsy fool.

Because at the moment she had glanced back, Tom Riddle had locked eyes with her.

It was pathetic, she knew, but her hands were shaking all the way to the library.

—

Polyjuice potion sounded easy enough to brew. The only problem was acquiring the ingredients. Snape certainly wasn't her biggest fan, so it wasn't as if she could charm them out of him. from what she could see when she watched Tom—and she watched him frequently—he had the ability to charm anyone he spoke to. Even Snape.

But, she had sworn not to think of Tom at the moment. There were more important things to do—like brewing polyjuice potion for Harry and Ron to sneak into the common room and figure out if Malfoy is guilty.

"We hardly need all three of us," Hermione had scoffed when the two boys arrived with the cloak, "If you give me the cloak I can go by myself."

"We're not letting you go out alone at night!" Ron admonished her, "Not with Malfoy out there!"

She rolled her eyes, but part of her was grateful for the company. It was admittedly terrifying, never knowing if she was safe or not. Never knowing what could happen, because it could be anything—a creature, a person, a spell—she had to look out for anything and everything as a danger.

She didn't even go to the library after hours anymore.

So they all crowded under the cloak and headed to the potions classroom, three pairs of feet shuffling quickly through the dark, empty corridors. Once in the classroom, Hermione shuffled through the shelves of vials, glancing between her piece of parchment with her ingredients scrawled on it and the labels on the shelves and drawers. Harry and Ron stood watch at the door.

"Shit," Ron swore—he was developing a sailors mouth, and normally Hermione would scold him for it, but at the moment she was only concerned with what was wrong, "Hermione we have to go."

"Who's there?" She heard a voice call out. She glanced wildly at the door and saw Ron's head popping out from the cloak. He gestured wildly.

"He heard you!" She hissed, shoving the last ingredient in the bag and handing it to him. "He already heard—you have to go! Take the ingredients, we can't risk losing them!"

"Hermione—"

She pulled the cloak down over his head just as the door to the front of the classroom opened, and Tom Riddle saw her standing in the doorway of the closet, her eyes wide and jaw slack.

"What are you doing?" He demanded. She hadn't realized it was him—you would think with all the attention she paid him she would recognize his voice, but the fact of the matter is she very rarely heard him speak. She was never close enough to hear. "What is your name?"

She was mildly offended that he didn't already know her name, but she knew she had no reason to be. "Hermione Granger," She murmured, fiddling with her skirt as his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Miss Granger, come out from the supply closet, please." He asked politely, but it was quite obvious that it was an order. He still blocked the doorway, and she knew Harry and Ron wouldn't be able to leave until he did, so she obediently stepped out of the closet and shuffled toward him. He stared down at her disapprovingly and her cheeks burned.

"Did you take anything?" He asked. She shook her head. "Where are your friends?"

"In their beds, I imagine." She replied, staring down at his feet. He had nice shoes, but then most Slytherins did. In a house filled with pureblood aristocrat's children, they were often well dressed. Was Tom Riddle a pureblood aristocrat, she wondered?

"You expect me to believe you are wandering around the castle after hours, alone? In light of recent events?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

She didn't answer.

"Come, Miss Granger," He sighed, "I will escort you back to your common room."

"That is unnecessary," She resisted, her voice wobbling.

"It is for your safety, Miss Granger," He insisted in a low tone, and she had the strangest feeling come over her at the way his voice sounded. Her breath caught, her heart skipped a beat, but it was not in the way it usually did. She felt, oddly, afraid.

How strange, to feel afraid in the presence of the boy she was in love with.

She allowed him to walk with her down the hall.

She felt so small beside him—more than just physically. Of course she was tiny beside him. He was a man, after all, nearly graduated with broad shoulders long legs. She was only a child, her head barely reaching his chest. But more than the physicality, everything about him was domineering. She had always been called the brightest witch of her age, but beside him she felt foolish, she felt insignificant and weak.

So why, then, did she still look upon him with wonder?

She wrung her hands uncomfortably in front of her and hoped Harry and Ron had the ingredients back in the common room.

He didn't speak to her on the way back. When they reached the portrait that led to her common room, he deducted house points and scolded her thoroughly. She stared down at his shoes and said nothing. "Your friends should keep a closer eye on you," He said.

"I can take care of myself," She snapped, looking up at him.

He smiled cruelly at her. "Doubtful," He said, and in the pause before his next words there was something very strange and very dangerous in his gaze, "Don't let me catch you out after curfew again."

He left.

Harry and Ron were waiting for her in the common room, a bag filled with ingredients.

—

It took a month to brew the potion—hidden away in the girls bathroom that hardly anyone ever used, locked away in one of the stalls. It was unsettling, brewing the potion in there knowing that anyone could stumble upon it, but there was nowhere else to hide it. At least here they could lock one of the stalls and set up amateur wards to keep people away.

It worked, in the end.

Well, almost.

"Are you ready, Hermione?" Harry called from the other side of the bathroom door while Hermione stared—horrified—into her handheld mirror. No. No she absolutely was not ready.

"Go without me," She snapped, turning the mirror away so she didn't have to see her failure.

"What?" Ron scoffed, "What do you mean—?"

"Just go!" She insisted, "Something went wrong—go without me. Let me know what happens with Malfoy, and be careful! This will only last an hour."

"Hermione—"

"Go!"

She was humiliated.

She fumed inside that stall, stroking the whiskers on her face with disgust. Sat upon the toilet seat, she tucked her feet up on the off chance that anyone would come in. She thought of Harry and Ron with Malfoy.

Part of her hoped it wasn't him. Not for his sake—she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone she had ever met, and she wouldn't put it past him to be a evil, murderous bastard. But it was frightening, to become so involved in all of this.

But she was used to trouble, now. Their friendship had been forged in danger, after all, when they saved her from that Troll her first year—and in everything else they did together to reveal Professor Quirrell for the crazy asshole he was—desperate for recognition, he was willing to threaten every child in that school on the quest for the philosopher's stone.

So, naturally, they had reacted to the news of the petrification of the muggle-borns by throwing themselves into trouble once again.

She heard footsteps.

She wrapped her hands around her knees and held her breath, staring down at her furry hands before shifting her eyes to peer under the stall door from where she sat on the toilet. She held her breath, waited to whoever it was to use the toilet and leave.

But they didn't.

She watched in amazement as a pair of shoes—familiar shoes, shoes she remembered in pathetic vivid detail—tapped across the floor. She heard something strange and chilling—a voice but not a normal voice. It hissed and breathed and sent something cold through her while also exciting her—what was it? What language?

Something moved, stone on stone, like a boulder being pushed out of the way. She stayed perfectly still, focused on the fur that faded away, giving way for her skin.

When she was sure it was silent, she threw herself out of the stall to see no one there.

She felt unsettled, afraid, like she had just discovered something she never really wanted to know. Tom Riddle had entered the girls bathroom, said something in a foreign language, and disappeared.

She fled the toilet, nearly slamming into another girl on the way out. The girl—older than her, Ravenclaw, Hermione didn't know her—pushed past her into the bathroom and Hermione wondered for a moment if she should warn her, or—

She left.

That night Myrtle Warren was found dead in the girls bathroom.

—

While the rest of the school cowered in their rooms, and the professors fretted over the dead girl, Hermione hid in the library and researched. She wasn't allowed to be there.

It wasn't hard to figure out. After what she had seen and what she had heard—it had all laid itself out in front of her. She tore the page from the book, crumpled it in her hand and picked up her handheld mirror.

Tom Riddle found her, his dark eyes appraising her suspiciously. He was still so handsome, and so intelligent, and everything she had ever thought she wanted, but—

Could he really be responsible?

Could that truly have been him in that bathroom?

"Students are not allowed out of their rooms." He intoned. She hid the mirror behind her back so he wouldn't see it. He didn't notice the movement, instead examining her expression.

"I'm going back," She said, "I…I needed the distraction."

"Go." He ordered. She scurried past him.

She didn't see him pull the book she had just closed from the shelf. He flipped it open, ran his finger along the torn edge of the page she had ripped out, before swearing—loudly—and slamming the book shut.

He spoke in hisses and snarls to the empty library, his hands clutching the edge of the table so hard that his his fingers bled as his nails dug into the wood.

Hermione held her mirror up around a corner in the corridor, and the last thing she saw were two yellow eyes before something cold settled over her and it all went dark.

—

When Tom Riddle was figured out by a twelve-year-old…that's when he knew it was time to stop.

It had been exciting, at first. How could it be anything else? To discover his lineage and the power that came with it—it was incredible. It was exhilarating. And with every filthy mudblood that fell petrified, he felt the rush of adrenaline, the speeding of his heart at just knowing that it was him. And the one who died…

Well, that was an accident, admittedly, but an exciting accident nonetheless.

He had never seen someone die before. Had never had the chance to observe a dead body where it lay, to examine the paling of the skin and the emptiness of the eyes. He sat on that bathroom floor, trailed his fingers along her cooling skin, and…

He slipped his hand in his bag to let his fingers trail along the spine of his diary. It felt warm.

And then Hermione fucking Granger happened.

She was nothing but a child—a wide-eyed, arrogant, Gryffindor brat—and on top of that a mudblood. Yet she figured it out. Somehow, she wound up in that library the day after Myrtle died and—

It was in the way she stared at him. It wasn't filled with naive adoration, as it had been before, but now she gazed at him with a quiet distrust, a fear that wasn't there before. She grit her teeth and tensed her shoulders, and crumpled the paper in her hand.

She was supposed to die, he thought. She was supposed to die but here she was, petrified but otherwise very safe, because she had known.

If only he had noticed the damn mirror.

He sat beside her where she lay petrified on the hospital bed—he often did. Ever since the first night when he found the paper clutched in her tiny fist, he was a frequent visitor. It was pointless to visit her. The mandrakes were still growing and she wouldn't reanimated until they were ready. Hagrid was currently facing the consequences for Tom's actions. There was no reason to be here.

Yet…here he was.

He examined her. He examined the roundness of her cheeks, her small stature, the delicacy of her arm, stretched out in the way she had held her mirror. She was so young—so impossibly young, and yet she had outsmarted him. He had thought her to be nothing more than another one of his admirers. Damn it, he _knew_ she was.

He had expected that to blind her. Maybe he hadn't been charming enough when he found her rummaging around in that potions supply closet, but—she was so irritating, so smart, he hadn't had the patience at the time to even pretend to entertain her fancy.

"Mr. Riddle!" The matron greeted when she saw him sitting next to the girl, "Back again?" He smiled genially at her but did not reply. "You must have been fairly close to Miss Granger, then?" She looked at him with something akin to pity.

"She is a bright witch," He replied, "And a nice girl. It isn't right what happened to her."

It _wasn't_ right. She should've died.

"Once the Mandrakes are fully grown it'll be fixed," She assured.

He visited her nearly every day—obsessively. He usually made it seem like he was visiting all the students who were petrified, but anyone who cared to observe could see that his attention clearly favored the wild-haired witch. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could trace his fingers along the flesh of her throat, contemplate strangling her. He could kill her if he wanted.

He wouldn't, it would be much too obvious. But he could.

The only good thing that came out of this situation was the way Dumbledore would gaze at him with something other than thinly veiled suspicion while he sat beside her. It seemed he was of the impression that Tom was genuinely bothered by Miss Granger's state. He even seemed to buy into Tom's story of Hagrid's creature—or at least bought into Tom believing it.

Strange, how this girl who he hated so desperately was actually helping his image—at least concerning Dumbledore. He wondered how she would feel knowing that was the case.

When he graduated, he asked to stay. To teach. It was entirely unmotivated by the girl in the hospital wing but he couldn't help but want to be there when she awoke.

Dumbledore said no, anyway.

His last night in Hogwarts he spent only a little time by her side. She certainly wasn't important enough to him to waste his entire evening by. His fingers trailed along the skin of her arm, much like he had with Myrtle on the bathroom floor. The difference was Granger's skin was still ferociously warm, burning his fingers, reminding him of her survival.

Dumbledore walked in to see his hand on her arm, and in an uncharacteristically nervous reaction, he jerked his hand back and shifted in his seat. He hadn't meant for his hand to linger that long.

Dumbledore asked him to reapply in a few years, and Tom's eyes settled on Hermione before he replied.

"I will," He promised.

—

When Hermione was cured, the first thing she did was clench her fist in search of her paper and found it wasn't there.

"Did you find it?" She gasped when she finally saw Ron and Harry—who had both wrapped themselves around her the moment she was in their sight, "Did you see?"

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked. She noticed he wasn't in his uniform, and she wondered briefly how long she was out.

"About the basilisk." She clarified, but they both looked so confused. "The thing that petrified me,"

Harry looked at her oddly, "No, an acromantula. It was Hagrid's—you know the half giant? He was expelled, but Dumbledore has him working with the creatures now."

She didn't know anything about acromantulas. She would have to research that later. She had been so certain she was right, but…

"How long was I out for?" She asked.

"Well, a few months," He admitted, and Hermione's eyes practically bulged out of her head. "Yeah, but they're letting you stay over the summer to catch up on classes!"

She heaved a sigh, rubbing tiredly at her eyes.

"Bloody Riddle was at your bedside nearly every day, you'll be happy to know," Ron spat.

Something cold settled in her chest. "What?" She breathed.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "He was here all the time. I think he was checking on the other students, too." He looks uneasy despite his explanation. Hermione felt baffled. A part of her, the part that still felt warm at the thought of him, rejoiced at the attention.

A part of her, the part that still felt that what she thought she knew had to be right—the basilisk, the bathroom, Tom—felt afraid at what his sudden attentions could mean.

She comforted herself with the knowledge that he had graduated now—he was gone.

He was gone.

How could she have known he would be back?

—

The next few years of Hermione's life were entirely uneventful.

They were exciting, surely, in the way anyone else's teenage years were exciting. She fell in love with Victor Krum (before Ron ruined it all), she continued with her title of brightest witch of her age.

She put the whole Tom Riddle debacle behind her.

In all her research on acromantulas there was nothing she could find to link that sort of creature to the yellow eyes that petrified her in the reflection of that mirror. Nothing to explain the strange hissing language that led to Riddle's disappearance in the bathroom before Myrtle's death.

In fact, she had acquired a book on ancient magical languages and she discovered he must be speaking parseltongue. It was an incredibly rare language—thought to be extinct, in fact. Hereditary, impossible—or nearly impossible, for she hesitated to refer to any skill as impossible—to learn if you aren't born with it. The book seemed to think it was only descendants of Slytherin, but the book seemed to think many things that sounded strange.

Alright, admittedly, the Tom Riddle debacle was not behind her.

In fact, it nearly consumed her sometimes.

Even now, about to go into her final year, and she was still searching for explanations.

He was guilty, obviously. He had framed poor Hagrid to save his own skin—he killed Myrtle (who now haunted that very bathroom), he even tried to kill her.

He tried to kill her!

And then he spent every night (allegedly) by her side in the hospital wing, most likely mourning the fact that he missed his chance.

He was so strange, she mused. He sets about killing muggle-borns in the school (or trying to, with only one success), attempts to kill her, fails, and spends every night with her as if…as if he's in love with her or something.

She hasn't deluded herself into thinking he was, of course. She was twelve at the time. But it still seemed so odd…

He had taken the paper from her, she guessed. Taken any evidence she had against him and framed someone else.

It didn't matter anyway. It shouldn't matter. She shouldn't be so obsessed with him—it's like she never grew out of her crush, only let it morph into something darker, something more academically based than emotional.

He drove her to the restricted section a lot.

She spent hours searching for the titles of the books she had seen when she first saw him hunched over those dark novels. It was impossible. She had only found one—and it was horrible. Not even horrible for the dark magic it contained, but horrible in the fact that it was so terribly written that it gave her a headache every time she looked at it.

"Hermione!" A voice interrupted, and she had been so deep in her thoughts that she violently jumped and slammed her head into the compartment window. The intruder laughed at her pain. "Whoa," Ginny snickered, "You zoned for a bit."

"Yeah," Hermione grumbled, rubbing her head. Ginny entered the compartment, followed closely by Harry and Ron and—ugh—Lavender. "It happens a lot."

"We know," Harry teased, and she sent him a withering look. His Head Boy badge hung proudly on his chest.

"Following in your parents footsteps," She commented, and he grinned broadly.

"Yeah, I don't get my future wife as my Head Girl, though." He joked, "Just some know-it-all"

She scowled, but gave way to a smile when he laughed. "Be thankful you didn't get stuck with…Pansy Parkinson or something."

Ron laughed loudly, "As if Pansy Parkinson would ever get the place over you." He joked. Her cheeks burned.

"I'm so excited for this year," Lavender gushed, "Our last year at Hogwarts! Do you know the new Defense teacher?"

No one was sure. It was a role that changed every year—each teacher more terrible than the last. "As long as we don't have another psychopath like Umbridge." Hermione grumbled.

"She got arrested." Ginny commented, eyeing Hermione meaningfully. She knew how much she despised that woman.

"Arrested?" Hermione echoed, "How could she get arrested? She _was_ the Ministry."

"Yeah," Lavender joined in, "I heard the Malfoys came out about her…you know…"

"Corporeal punishment?" Hermione prompted, rubbing her thumb over the back of her hand. Lavender nodded.

"Malfoy?" Ron sneered, "Malfoy got none of it! He was her fucking lap dog!"

"That's just what I heard," Lavender commented, "Anyway, what a Malfoy wants a Malfoy gets."

Hermione actually managed a laugh at that—which was unusual, because most of what Lavender said annoyed her, "Well, for once I approve of what a Malfoy wants." She joked.

"I heard our defense teacher is handsome this year," Lavender sighed, "I can't wait to meet him."

"Oi," Ron nudged her shoulder with his and Lavender beamed at him, pecking him quickly on the lips. Hermione felt suddenly ill.

"Gotta be old, though," Ginny commented.

"I've heard he's young," Harry said, "I don't know much else, but I heard he's the youngest professor they've had in a long time."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. It would be interesting to meet him—if he was young, he would certainly be intelligent. She only hoped he wasn't arrogant, whoever he was.

Young, intelligent men so often were.

She excused herself to the toilet when Ron and Lavender started canoodling. It was bad enough that she was fifth-wheeling in there, but she was fifth wheeling while in love with one of the taken men.

This whole thing with Ron was so exhausting—she just wished she could get over it.

Her thoughts—as they often did when she considered crushes—turned back to the darker side of her past. Strange, that he was her dark side—she had hardly anything to do with him, but he still had so much impact on her life. There were a lot of dark spells that should would likely know nothing of if it weren't for him.

She knew the term Horcrux because of him—because of the books he was reading in the library.

He hadn't disguised them, which was strange to her. She supposed he couldn't be bothered to charm the titles while he was alone in the library—and if she had come in without the cloak he likely would have cast the charm immediately.

She still remembered how attractive he was. She remembered the way the sun would highlight the sharpness of his cheekbones whenever it caught him, the way his hair was always perfectly swept back from his forehead. He was so desperately handsome—and so darkly intelligent. She wished she could have met him after the fact—after she knew. But then he probably would have killed her. If he killed Myrtle—an innocent girl who knew nothing—what was stopping him from killing her—the know-it-all?

She saw a tall, broad shouldered figure disappearing into a compartment and her heart skipped a beat. Great. She was seeing him everywhere now. Her mind was so fixated on him that she was hallucinating.

She planned on peeking in the window of the cabin as she walked by—just to be sure—but she was slightly distracted by the pale-haired boy exiting from another compartment.

She scowled at his horrendous smirk.

"Mudblood," He greeted pleasantly. "Have a pleasant summer slumming it with the muggles?"

She couldn't keep herself from replying. "Not as pleasant as yours." She commented, "Heard you got Umbridge thrown in prison."

"I thought you'd be grateful." He sneered down at her as she neared him.

"Grateful?" She scoffed, "To be grateful would imply you did it for me." He scowled at her. She found his non response more unsettling than his usual cutting replies. She pushed past him in the corridor.

"Have you heard of the new Defense teacher?" He asked as she passed. She hesitated, glaring at him warily. Her curiosity was getting the better of her.

"No one seems to know much," She commented, "I suppose you whined loud enough to get an answer."

He smirked wickedly, "He and my family are close," He commented, crowding her. He leered down at her, but she refused to show that she was uncomfortable. "He has a _thing_ for mudbloods, apparently." He sneered.

She glared. "Get away from me," She demanded when she found she couldn't slip away because of how closely he had crowded her.

"I can only imagine the things he'd do to you," He purred, staring down his nose at her, "Bet he could make you forget all about Weasleby—"

She shoved him into the opposite wall so hard his head it with a loud, resounding thwack.

"Ow— _fucking_ mudblood!" He swore.

"You're lucky I didn't punch you in the face!" She snapped. His eyes flashes furiously at her but he didn't move against her—likely because he knew she meant it. She had done it before, after all, and there was nothing stopping her from breaking his nose again.

"You should watch yourself," He threatened as she carried on down the hall. She flipped him off.

When she returned to the compartment the first thing she said was, "Draco knows the new professor."

"Shit," Harry groaned, "He's going to be another Snape."

Hermione didn't know what to say. She sat down and feigned sleeping for most of the train ride to Hogwarts.

Something ominous settled over her.

—

The new defense teacher wasn't at the opening feast.

They didn't meet him until their class.

They didn't meet him until they were already seated and ready for the class.

Hermione didn't realize Tom Riddle was the new defense teach until she was staring him down from the front row of the classroom.

He leaned against his desk, the very picture of ease, and locked his eyes onto hers. "Good morning," He greeted the class.

She was feeling all sorts of conflicting emotions.

—

She stayed behind when class ended.

He dismissed the class and dimly she heard the students packing up their things and heading out. Harry called her name and she waved him off and he left—as if she wasn't in danger, as if she wasn't about to allow herself to be alone with a murderer.

But then he didn't know. She had never told him.

She didn't move from her desk, she hadn't even put her things away into her bag. She remained exactly where she was, examining him as he collected his papers on his desk.

"Can I help you, Miss Granger?" He hadn't turned around.

She swallowed thickly, unable to respond right away. Her hesitation prompted him to face her again. He raised a single eyebrow and leaned against his desk, observing her.

Neither spoke, for a moment.

"I know," She said, confused. "You know that I know."

His lips quirked. "And what do you know."

"You _know_ " She stressed.

"You're being purposefully vague," He observed, crossing his arms across his chest as he regarded her.

"You tried to have me killed," She snapped, and once she did he raised his wand to shut the door of the classroom. "Are you here to finish the job?"

"You think I'm here to kill you?" He asked, sounding amused.

"No," She admitted, leaning back in her chair. "I doubt you would wait five years and then return for the sole purpose of killing me, but that doesn't mean you won't just do that while you're here."

His eyes burned, even in the dim lighting of the classroom. Neither moved. "You've grown." He commented, his words holding more weight than she expected.

"Are you going to do it again?" She asked, then after a pause, clarified, "The Basilisk."

"Would you stop me if I did?" He mocked. She pursed her lips and didn't answer, unsure if she should. A slow smile stretches across his face, and he slowly approached her. He squatted on the floor across from her, folding his arms atop her desk and resting his chin. He regarded her for a moment, his eyes gliding across her face and her hair, down her neck.

"I was going to wait until you graduated," He admitted, his eyes fixed on her throat. "But Dumbledore insisted I return this year." His eyes flicked up to meet hers, "I wonder why."

"I couldn't possibly imagine," She intoned. Her eyes had fixed themselves on his mouth and she didn't realize it until he had already noticed. He smiled.

"You'll be late for class." He warned.

She nodded, gathered her things, and left.

—

Dumbledore had insisted.

He had insisted, Professor Riddle said.

Why the bloody hell had he _insisted?_

She had taken to watching them during lunchtimes, and she felt like she was twelve years old again, desperately seeking out the object of her affection and wishing above everything else that they would glance back. She didn't really want him to glance back now, however. Really she would've preferred him bursting into flames.

And Dumbledore…well she wasn't sure what she wanted him to do. It was useless to examine him—he had never expressed any interest in her and would continue not to do so, she was certain. It wasn't like Harry, whom he obviously had a soft spot for. He appreciated Hermione as a student but constantly held her at arms length.

And then he insists that Professor Riddle come back this year instead of next.

It couldn't have anything to do with her. It was possible they had no one else for the job, but that was unlikely given the coveted position Riddle now had. He was intelligent, of course, and incredibly charismatic as a teacher, and his lectures were incredible. But he was so young—it was unlikely that he was more qualified than anyone else who would apply for the position, so—why?

Why him? Why now?

"So you're back on your bloody Riddle obsession, then?" Ron grumbled across from her. She snapped her attention back to her friends, meeting Ron's annoyed glare. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to explain everything, to tell them everything she hadn't told them her second year, everything she knew now about the man they thought she was so in love with.

But something stopped her. Before she could let those secrets spill, she locked her lips shut. Had he done something to her, she wondered?

Her eyes snapped back to Riddle. Had he cursed her into silence?

"Mione," Ron groaned when her attention shifted back to her professor. She forced her attention back to him, offering him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," She said, "Just…lost in thought, sorry." He glared at her while she poked around at her food with her fork.

"Yeah, along with every other girl in this bloody school," He grumbled. "He's not _that_ great."

"That's _not_ what I was thinking about," She assured. Ron stared at her disbelievingly, "It isn't." She insisted. He rolled his eyes. "I mean it."

He shrugged dismissively, "Whatever, Hermione. We get it. You have a type."

She gaped at him. "A type?" She glanced at Harry who was looking between the two of them with nothing less than exhaustion, "What does that mean?"

"There was Riddle second year," He listed, "Then Victor Krum," She narrowed her eyes, quite clearly remembering Ron's reaction to Hermione attending the ball with Krum, "You have this… _thing_ for tall, dark, and handsome."

She glared at him fiercely, feeling this conversation spinning a bit out of her comfort zone. She didn't want to talk about her perceived attraction to Tom Riddle—he tried to _kill_ her. She didn't want to talk about him at _all_.

And she didn't have a thing for tall, dark, and handsome—she had a thing for Ron!

"Professor Riddle was a childhood crush," She defended, "I don't feel that way about him. He's my professor."

"Then why did you stay behind after class?" He snapped, "Must be your…dream or something, to get with a professor. Imagine the guaranteed grade."

She gaped at him, reaching out to grab his fork as he shoveled food in his mouth and throw it away from the table. "You know what, Ron?" She growled, "Why don't you go complain to Lavender."

He stared at her in shock—as if her getting in the way of his meal was somehow more offensive than him implying she wanted to fuck her professor for a good grade. When he didn't move, she picked his plate up and threw that to the ground too, unaware in her anger that she was making a scene. "Go!" She ordered.

"Fine!" He stood up and stormed to the other end of the table where Lavender was glancing over with worry. She smiled when he reached her side, kissing him on the cheek and running her thumb across the angry frown lines around his mouth. Hermione turned her eyes away.

Harry's hand settled over hers calmingly. "He's only worried," He said, "The way Riddle obsessed over you after you were petrified…It's weird that he's back. We thought we'd seen the last of him when he graduated, you know?"

"He had no right to imply—" She began, and Harry's hand moved so his arm rested comfortably around her shoulders.

"I know." He agreed, "I think he knows that, too. He'll feel awful about it later,"

"Good." She grumbled, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, though?" He pressed, "He hasn't…I mean, has he…?"

She didn't understand what he was implying. She didn't move her head from where it rested, but ask calmly, "Did who do what?"

"Riddle," He clarified, "Has he…tried anything?"

She tensed. Why was Harry asking if he had tried anything? The answer was no, so far, but it certainly wasn't set in stone. Did he know? Of course he didn't, she disregarded the thought. If he knew about Tom's involvement with the death of Myrtle and her own petrification, he would have gone straight to Dumbledore—exactly what she didn't do.

"What do you mean?" She asked carefully.

He pushed her away so he could meet her eyes but kept his arm around her to communicate that he didn't want this to sound like an interrogation, "Your second year…" He began, hesitating briefly, "He got really obsessed with you. And now that he's back…and you're grown…I mean, you're not a kid anymore, 'Mione, and…"

She balked. Was he implying he thought Professor Riddle was pursuing her sexually?

"No!" She shook her head, and her shock at the question was perfectly genuine—genuine enough for Harry to sigh with relief, "No, absolutely not." She repeated.

"Alright," Harry nodded, "You know if he does, you can just—just go to Dumbledore and Riddle will be out in a second."

She frowned but nodded in agreement anyway. She didn't have the blind faith in Dumbledore that Harry had. She didn't believe he would kick Riddle out after he had apparently insisted for him to be here in the first place.

"Alright, Harry," She agreed.

When her eyes traveled back to the Professor's table, for the first time in all her months of watching him, she found Tom Riddle's eyes fixed on her.

She snapped her eyes back to the table and excused herself to the library.

—

The next few months were quiet.

She had worried, after seeing him watching her so intently, that it would become a regular occurrence. But, as it turned out, he was just as reserved with her as he was with everyone else. And it went both ways.

Hermione didn't stay after classes to speak with him, she didn't glance at him during meals, she didn't speak about him to anyone and would dutifully avoid the subject if he ever came up. And he didn't look at her, didn't speak to her, didn't even call on her in class unless he had no other options (similar to Snape, she realized with a scowl)

But that didn't mean she stopped thinking about him.

She would spend hours in the library researching everything she could to better understand what had occurred her second year. She knew it had to be a basilisk—nothing about an acromantula made sense—and she knew it had to be making its way around through the pipes. As for its home, she had a slightly far fetched theory—could it be that Slytherin's chamber of secrets was not merely a myth?—but that theory opened up so many strange possibilities that she worked her way very carefully around it.

If it was the chamber of secrets, and Tom Riddle controlled the basilisk…He had to have access to the chamber. But Slytherin was paranoid and suspicious and would never allow anyone but him to have access to somewhere as sacred as that. Only him and, perhaps…

But it was far fetched, wasn't it, to assume a relation? Surely parseltongue wasn't confined only to Slytherin's bloodline? Although, Riddle certainly sounded like a muggle name…

She had to cancel out any other possibilities before she could assume that he was the heir of Slytherin, carrying on his legacy to purge Hogwarts of muggleborns.

Well, half of that she already knew was true, it was only the first half she was unsure about.

"Studying, Mudblood?" A familiar drawl interrupted, and she pinched the bridge of her nose, "You'll need all the help you can get for exams, what with your…disadvantage."

She knew he was referring to her so-called dirty blood, but his claims were so outrageous she could do nothing but hold her hand up in confusion and say, "My grades have always been better than yours."

He sneered down at her from where he leaned against the bookshelf, and she felt a flash of anger at him for invading her safe place and contaminating it with his horrid personality. "Well," He began nastily, "There's other ways to get a grade."

She breathed harshly through her nose. Why was everyone accusing her of sleeping with her professors? "Did you need something or do you simply enjoy being an irritant?"

"Just wondering how you're still here," He commented casually. It caught her attention, not because of what he said—he was always wondering at how someone with such dirty blood could still be latching onto this school like a parasite—but because of the way he regarded her when he said it. Like he knew something she didn't.

She vaguely remembered their conversation on the train. A conversation that she had originally brushed off as Malfoy just being an arsehole, but in light of Tom Riddle's professorship, she was wondering exactly how much he knew about this whole situation.

He wouldn't tell her, of course.

Unless she could make him angry enough.

She leaned back in her chair, turning her attention from her favorite novel—Hogwarts: a History—and regarded him cooly. He sensed the change in atmosphere, and his body shifted into a position that seemed a bit more defensive.

"I think you know why I'm still here," She stated boldly. He smirked, crossing his arms in front of him.

"I don't think I know anything about that," He replied dubiously, and just to be cruel, added, "Mudblood."

"I'm beginning to think you don't know anything about anything," She deadpanned, and he actually had the audacity to laugh at her.

"Oo-hoo!" He raised his eyebrows at her, "Feisty little mudblood."

"You might want to come up with different insults," She parried, "It's getting a bit boring." She tried to reign in her temper. She was supposed to be making him angry, not the other way around.

"You won't be around long enough for me to use them," He threatened.

She arranged her expression into something calm, and said, "Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know."

"Because of Professor Riddle?" She pressed, crossing her legs in front of her in what she desperately hoped what nonchalance.

He sneered, but didn't seem necessarily unhappy that she knew the actual topic of their conversation "You always were a snotty know-it-all," He commented, as if he hadn't expected her to bring him up.

"If he is planning on killing me," She paused, "Why has he waited so long?"

He seemed uncomfortable now that the subject of Riddle was brought up, and uncomfortable was never good for spilling secrets. If she learned anything after years of putting up with Malfoy's bullshit, it was that anger could be manipulated, but making him uncomfortable only ever ended up in a fight.

She barreled on, hoping to say something that would incite his rage, "I think that if he ever planned on killing me, he doesn't want to now. And I think you hate that—you hate that he may actually want to keep someone like me around, even when you think I deserve to die—"

"I don't know what you're talking about," He snapped, and he was afraid. Her brow furrowed as she examined him. She could see it in the way he paused and licked his lips, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his eyes darted from her to the floor and back. And it baffled her because, if she was correct in her research—and she was rarely wrong—then Tom Riddle should be hell bent on destroying all muggleborns, and Malfoy should be in no danger. He had told her on the bus that his family was close to Riddle, had he not? So why the fear?

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm still alive…because he likes me." She surmised, and Malfoy grit his teeth, "At least, he likes me better alive than dead. That's why he hasn't offed me yet. He wants me alive. But you—"

"You don't know anything," He snapped, pulling out his wand. She sprung to her feet, her wand coming out to rival his. Neither cast a spell yet.

"He doesn't care about you," She pushed, "He would kill you in a heartbeat and you can't figure out why he would rather kill you than a _filthy mudblood_ —"

He cast a curse that she barely managed to shield herself from, and she was shocked at the animosity behind the spell.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " Both their wands flew from their hands. "Mr. Malfoy," A familiar baritone called, "Go wait in my office. We'll have our conversation there."

"M-My—" Whatever he was about to say was halted by Professor Riddle harsh glare. Hermione watched him warily and wondered what he had heard. Malfoy scurried out of the library with his tail between his legs, leaving his wand behind.

Tom Riddle didn't speak. He regarded her with a glare that she couldn't quite understand the fire behind. She backed away from him as he advanced until she was pressed against the wall of books. He paused by the desk she was working at, his fingers gliding thoughtfully over the page she was open to—the section about the Chamber of Secrets, she realized with a shot to her chest—and his fingers curled into a fist hovering over those pages.

His burning gaze shifted suddenly to meet hers.

She clenched her jaw.

"You've been digging," He commented. She wasn't sure if he was referring to the book on the table or her conversation with Malfoy or something else entirely, and the fact that she had no idea what he knew unsettled her. She couldn't think of what to say.

So she said nothing.

She examined him from where she stood pressed against the book shelf and tried to figure out how much of the conversation he had heard, but if he had heard anything, he didn't show. She hadn't even gotten to the good part. If she had only a few more moments she probably could've actually figured out if anything she had bluffed was true.

Then again, that was probably why he broke it up.

He held both hers and Malfoy's wands in one hand, pocketing them inside his robes as he regarded her. He took a step toward her and she had nowhere to go.

"You were goading him," He observed, his voice lower than usual in the quiet of the library—she hadn't realized how loud her and Malfoy were, and she was surprised Madam Prince hadn't heard and intervened—the sound was breathy and raspy. Not at all like the usual silken baritone that filled the room. It was unsettling only because of how much she liked the sound of it when he spoke like that. "A very Gryffindor approach. You might have been better off seducing him, he is quite _obsessed_ with you and Mister Potter."

She frowned thoughtfully, "He seems to think _you_ are quite obsessed with _me_." She murmured. He eyed her in what she perceived was amusement. "He wonders why you haven't killed me."

"I suppose you are wondering as well," He was closer now. He had been slowly advancing as they spoke and within this simple exchange he had already come within a meter. She started to press herself tightly against the shelves but stopped herself in time. Instead she attempted to appear nonplussed.

"I figure its inevitable," She intoned, her eyes falling to stare at his shoes as he closed in on her, "I don't wish to dwell on my unavoidable demise,"

"No, we both know that's not true," He murmured, and she had no way of knowing if he was referring to her comment on the inevitability of her death or the fact that she didn't wish to dwell on it. Either way, she kept her eyes trained on his shoes until his toes practically touched her own. He was standing so close. Was this some sort of intimidation tactic?

"If that's all professor, I would like my wand back."

"Look at me."

She did. Calmly, she lifted her eyes to meet his and leveled his heavy gaze with her own steadfast one. She wouldn't allow him to intimidate her. He already held power over her in his very position as professor—she wouldn't allow him to hold power over her here.

The library was _hers_.

"I would like my wand back," She repeated. His lips quirked and her eyes were drawn to the movement, but by the time they focused on his mouth it had fallen back into a straight, unamused line. When she raised her eyes to his again, they seemed different somehow. "Malfoy will be waiting for you."

"I will deal with Malfoy," He assured, reaching into his robe pocket to draw out her wand. She wrapped her fingers around it, but he hadn't let go. He examined her for a long time, still holding one end of her wand. "It would be in your best interest to focus on your studies, Miss Granger," He finally said, his voice a deep, resigned rumbling in his chest. His words held a threat.

"And if I can't?" She asked. "If I'm distracted?"

His hand—the one that wasn't holding onto her wand, refusing to give it to her—moved to grip her hair, pulling her head back against the shelves. Her breath hitched, her free hand reaching up to grip at his forearm, her nails digging into his sleeve. "I have allowed you your curiosity thus far," He hissed, his voice sounding dangerously similar to the tone that she had overhead in the girls bathroom all those years ago. And part of her, the part of her that lived without sense or logic, it yearned to hear it again—to hear him speak in a language she could only learn from him. "Do not test my mercy,"

"I wouldn't dream of it," She spat, and as quickly as his hand had wound through her hair, he pulled back. He stepped away from her, relinquishing her wand, and she raised her fingers to soothe the back of her head. She glared at him with all the vicious tenacity she could muster. "Am I free to leave, professor?"

He nodded once, and she brushed past him to slam her book shut and take it with her out of the library—out of her secluded studying corner, past Madam Prince who eyed her as she left. She fled down the corridor and made her way straight to the common room.

Tom Riddle thought he could intimidate her into silence, but his viciousness only spurred her to action.

She had to find Harry and Ron.

—

 **hhahahaha okay**

 **yeah**

 **This is going to be about three (maybe four) chapters long? Let me know if you like it so far, and I'll finish up the next chapter! I know there's nothing M yet, that comes sort of next chapter and especially chapter 3**

 **Please let me know what you think! (Also let me know if there's any strange typos for real because im a shit proof-reader sometimes tbh)**


	2. Chapter 2

"But it was an acromantula."

Hermione sighed as she repeated—for the fourth time—"No, it wasn't. Acromantulas cannot petrify." Ron's face was screwed up in confusion and disbelief while Harry sat quietly at her other side, looking pensive.

"Then why did the attacks stop after it was found?" He asked.

"I can only assume it was because I found out," She said, "He didn't want to risk being exposed."

"Tom Riddle?" Ron sneered, quite louder than necessary, and Hermione shushed him.

"Keep your voice down!" She scolded, glancing around the sparsely populated common room. They had cast a muffiato to keep their conversation discreet, and at the late hour very few students were present, but she didn't need this getting out just yet. "Yes, Tom Riddle. At first it was only a suspicion, but now…"

"Now what?" Harry asked urgently, and she hesitated. She had told them everything about her second year, about the basilisk, the chamber of secrets, Tom's involvement, even her conversation with him when he first returned. But she hadn't mentioned the library.

"Now…I'm just more certain now."

"And you said Dumbledore insisted he come back?" Harry asked incredulously, "How could he if…did you ever tell him?"

Hermione was quiet.

"We have to tell him!" Harry exclaimed, and she settled a hand on his knee to keep him from rising to his feet.

"No," She refused, "I just…We need to know why he brought him back before we can tell him anything, Harry."

"You can't honestly expect him to be on Riddle's side?" Ron scoffed, and Hermione didn't answer. To be honest, she didn't expect Dumbledore to be on Tom's side. But, she did expect him to know. She expected him to at least suspect that the acromantula Tom had put forth had been a lie—how could such an incredible wizard not know, after all? And why would he allow Riddle back in the school—as her professor—knowing he had almost killed her?

She didn't trust him, not like Harry did. She didn't want him to know.

"He could be planning to do it again, 'Mione." Harry said, and she knew he was right.

"Just…" She hesitated, "If we tell him and we don't have proof, it will only anger Professor Riddle. Just wait." Harry watched her warily, worriedly. "Promise me you won't tell anyone, please."

"I promise," He swore, squeezing her hand comfortingly. She turned to Ron next.

"I promise," He grumbled.

—

The following day, Defense class was particularly horrendous only because Professor Riddle was particularly cruel to his students today.

Or at least, to the Gryffindors.

Or at least…to Hermione.

It was subtle much in the way Snape's cruelty was subtle—enough to be made clear but also discrete enough that you couldn't defend yourself. It was only a bit unusual. Professor Riddle was always charming, courteous, and polite when directing his lessons, but he was also a Slytherin. So, even if it was a bit out of character for him, his snide remarks toward the Gryffindors—Hermione—was not entirely strange.

Hermione kept silent, only because she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting under her skin. And she was certain that was what it was. He thought he had power over her, she imagined. He believed she was afraid of him, that she was keeping his secrets, that he had her under his thumb. She could see it in the subtle upturn of his lips when she remained silent under his scathing remarks. She could see it in his lingering gaze.

She gritted her teeth and ignored every nasty remark he threw at her. She wouldn't allow him to anger her.

He had no power over her.

Ron, however, was a bit of a mess.

"What's his deal?" He hissed in her ear after Riddle had quite cruelly mocked her answer to one of his questions.

"Calm down, Ron," She soothed.

"He's being a right git," He whispered, "For no reason. Does he know you know?"

"No," She lied, "Calm _down_. This is no different from Snape."

"Yeah," He scoffed, "Except Snape isn't a murder—"

"Shush, Ron!" She hissed.

"Miss Granger," her Professor's voice intoned, "I ask that you at least attempt to resist _distraction_ and focus on your lesson," He was referring to her talking in class, but she was certain that was a reference to their conversation in the library. She swallowed.

"I apologize, Professor," She spoke calmly.

"Apologies make no difference when facing your death, Miss Granger," He deadpanned, and her hand moved to clutch at Ron's knee when she felt him tense beside her. Riddle turned his attention to the rest of the class for a moment as he continued, "This class is not one to be taken as a joke. Perhaps, it is not so much a class as an accumulation of skills necessary to survive. It would be unfortunate, if one of you were too _distracted_ in class to learn how to defend yourself against a werewolf, or a dark curse, or, say—" His eyes fitted back to her, and she imagined he they were alone he may have smiled, "A Basilisk."

Ron sprung to his feet and drew his wand quicker than Hermione could react. The rest of the class jerked in their seats at his behavior, staring at the scene in confusion and shock. Hermione jumped to her feet beside him, one hand settling on his shoulder and the other on his wrist, pushing his wand down. "What is wrong with you?" She hissed, quiet despite knowing that everyone was listening anyway, "You can't turn your wand on a teacher."

"But he—" She glared at him so fiercely it was as if she had sewn his mouth shut. He lowered his wand, and even allowed her to slip it from his grip as she eased him down in his seat. As he calmed, the classroom erupted in quiet chatter, murmurings from the classmates as they watched the debacle. She soothed her hands over his shoulders and settled his wand on the desk away from him.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for turning your wand on a professor. Mr. Weasley, you will see me after class." Professor Riddle said calmly, his voice ringing out over the chatter. "Miss Granger, sit down."

"I didn't mean to," Ron whispered, their voices hidden in the noise of the classroom, "Do you think he—"

"No," She soothed, but she felt like Ron's sudden desperate anger might be tell Riddle all he needs to know, "No, I'm sure—"

"Miss Granger," His voice was decidedly chillier now, and the room quieted at the sound of it. "Sit down."

She met his eyes and she heisted. It was incredible to her how lethal he could look. He was only a man, after all, with soft hair and long eyelashes and pale pink lips. Yet in all those soft features, he was still just as fearsome. Just as horrifying and just as intimidating. And she was terrified, because Ron was hot-headed as usual and Tom Riddle would now suspect he knew and Hermione would be damned if she was going to put him in danger.

Ron's hand settled on her waist to shock her back into reality, and Riddles eyes snapped so suddenly to his hand on her that she realized she had been staring at him quite intently for some time. Ron eased her into her seat, allowing his hand to linger for a moment before squeezing her waist comfortingly and removing his hand. It wasn't until he took his hand from her that Riddle continued the lesson.

When it ended, she hovered around the exit and watched. It was tense, but as long as Ron wasn't defending hers or Harry's honor, he was quite capable of keeping calm. Or at least relatively calm. But could he convince Riddle that he didn't know anything? She was beginning to question her decision in telling the boys at all. What had she dragged them into?

"Miss Granger," A familiar baritone sang, "Since you see it fit to linger, perhaps you would like to speak to me as well?" It was obviously an order, and she glared at him from the doorway, "Mr. Weasley, you may leave."

"But," He began to protest, glancing between the two of them.

"It's alright, Ron," She assured, "I'll catch up with you."

He approached her, his hand finding hers and squeezing much harder than he probably intended. "Hermione—"

"I'll be fine." She smiled tightly and withdrew her hand, turning back to her Professor. Ron reluctantly left, and as soon as he was gone Riddle slammed the door shut with a wave of his wand. He cast another spell immediately following. It was wordless but she assumed it was a silencing spell on the room, and she felt dread pool in her stomach.

He leaned against the edge of his desk as he regarded her. She didn't move.

"Your friend is exceedingly," He paused, thoughtfully, his eyebrow arching, "Protective."

She grit her teeth. "You were uncharacteristically vicious today," She commented, and at his amused expression, she realized that no, he wasn't. Considering who he was, what he had done, this was nothing. She hurried on to correct herself, "Or at least uncharacteristic of how you usually conduct yourself in the classroom."

"Do you believe that?" He murmured, his voice somehow still managing to take up the entirety of the room even at so low a volume.

No, she didn't believe that. He always had a tendency to be cruel in the classroom, especially concerning students on the lower half of the grading scale.

"Yes," She lied. "He has always been hot-headed. He wanted to stand up for me."

A languid smile stretched across his lips, "Protect you against a murderer?" He asked.

"No," She lied.

His smile dropped and he let out a bit of a melodramatic sigh, raising a hand to beckon her closer. "Come here, Miss Granger," He ordered.

She didn't move.

"Miss Granger," He said a bit more impatiently, "Come here."

She didn't.

He pushed himself off the desk and approached her where she stood in the middle of the classroom. When he finally stood before her, he towered over her. She remembered once, as a child, admiring his build. Admiring how tall he was, how he made her feel so small. Now she loathed it—even now as nearly a woman she still only reached just past his shoulder.

"I had thought," He breathed, "That we had reached some sort of agreement."

"Agreement?" She echoed, clenching her fists at her side and refusing to take a step back from him. He was too close. If she took too deep a breath she would feel his chest against hers. She could smell him, and more than that she could feel him. She could feel the way his magic moved around him, the way it enveloped her and made her feel like she was suffocating. She felt trapped. She lashed out, "I suppose you expect me to _let_ you wipe out every muggleborn in the school, then?"

He regarded her quietly for a moment, his jaw ticking as he raised a hand and ran the back of his knuckles down her arm. Her chin snapped down to examine the movement, but at her obvious distaste of his touch, he didn't stop. He dragged it down to her elbow before moving back up. She sucked in a shaky breath.

"Not every one." He rumbled, and his meaning was explicitly clear.

"You don't mean to kill me." She realized, her eyes still transfixed on the movement of his hand against hers. It halted, but the contact remained. He didn't pull his hand away. "No." She seethed.

His hand lifted to tuck a finger under her chin and force her to look at him. "No?" He echoed. She slapped his hand away and took a step back. What had just been an expression of serenity had now fallen into thinly veiled annoyance as he regarded her.

"I am not an exception," She spat, "Muggleborns deserve to be here just as much as any pureblood. You are operating on views that originated centuries ago, when muggles were still trying to burn witches alive—It's different now. Muggleborns are stronger and more capable, and —and I am not an exception, I am the proof."

"Enlightening speech," He mocked.

"Shut up." She snapped, and his expression darkened even further. "You think that you can intimidate me into silence. I won't sit idly by and allow you to wipe out a race of witches and wizards who have done nothing to deserve your hatred." He took a step toward her and she couldn't help but take a step back, "You should kill me," She warned, "Because I'll tell everyone. I won't stop telling everyone until you're in Azkaban where you belong."

She had been operating on the belief that he couldn't kill her now, not while he was the last person to have seen her. Not while Ron was anxiously awaiting her exit of the classroom. Not in the middle of the day while he had no way to rid himself of her body.

She certainly hadn't expected him to lift his wand, and allow the curse, "Crucio," To fall from his lips.

Dimly, she was aware that, as her knees buckled, he caught her. She only knew because as she writhed squirmed and screamed—her body's reaction at trying to appease the pain—she felt his hands pushing and pulling against her She could hardly take in another breath through the pain in order to scream again, so she just gasped at the agony.

He lifted the curse.

Her body was twitching under the aftereffects of the curse, and now that she wasn't blinded by the pain, she saw that he had pushed her against the wall of the classroom, her wrists held tightly in his hands between them. "You…" Her voice rasped, "You used an unforgivable."

He raised on hand to drag across one cheek, then the other, and she realized that she had been crying when his fingers came away wet. He rested a hand against her cheek to keep her eyes on his as he asked, "Did you tell Mr. Weasley?"

She couldn't subject Ron to this. She couldn't allow him to do this to Ron and Harry. What a fool she was, to consider she had the upper hand by telling anyone. He would do the same thing to them, wouldn't he? "No," She lied. He looked entirely unamused, and he reached for his wand again. "No," She begged.

"Crucio,"

Her head snapped back at the onslaught of pain so violently that it slammed into the stone wall and sent her careening forward into his arms. She screamed again, surprised that it actually felt worse the second time. But if he thought that torturing her would secure him an answer, he didn't understand her at all. The only thing that she could think of was that she could not be responsible for this happening to Ron or Harry. She tried to open her mouth to insist she hadn't told, but all that came out were cries, muffled by something.

When he lifted the curse again, she realized that her face was buried in his chest, his arms locked firmly around her waist. She was appalled, wondering what kind of psychopath held his victims while he tortured them. One hand snaked up to bury itself in her hair and force her head back so he could see her face. Her legs were jelly underneath her, held up entirely by the strength of his arm around her back.

"Who have you told?" He demanded, and she shook her head desperately.

"No one." She lied again, and he actually rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh that she felt with her entire body, releasing his hold on her hair in order to lift his wand again, "No, I haven't, please—"

"Crucio."

Each time was somehow worse than the last. Pain coursed through her veins and sent her body back into its frenzied convulsions, her muscles tensing and cramping and her throat burning from the force of her screams. She desperately tried to pull her mind together, but all she could focus on was the pain.

He lifted the curse for the third time and watched her as she gasped agains the wall. He still was her crutch, holding her up against him even as she leaned away from him against the stone. It was strange, the juxtaposition of the torture and the way he held her so tenderly against him. It was horrifying, and likely some sort of psychological torture that he should hold her in such a way, gently wiping the tears from her face when he was the very man who put them there.

"Tell me." He seethed, and when her hand fell against his stomach, she felt the muscles in his abdomen tense. She couldn't imagine why, but he still looked at her in that strange way, his eyes dark and intense and intimidating.

"He thinks I'm in love with you," She lied desperately, "He gets jealous. He doesn't know." His wand arm shifted and she clutched at it, willing him to keep it still, begging, "He doesn't know, He doesn't know, please, I won't tell him, just leave him alone—just don't cast it again, please."

"You expect me to believe that?" He murmured.

"I don't expect you to believe anything," She snapped, and his hand clutched at her waist in what she might've believed to be a warning if she couldn't see the strange, indiscernible expression on his face. He lifted his hand from her waist—not his wand hand—and allowed his thumb to settle on her lower lip. It stung as he dragged it across her cheek, his eyes tracing the movement intently. The pain alerted her that she must've bitten her lip during torture—it was likely she had drawn blood. She couldn't breathe.

"I told him I'm in love with you," She whispered against the pressure of his thumb. His eyes snapped back up to hers, dark and intense and unwavering, "He noticed my fixation on you, so I told him it was love." His other hand shifted to stretch across the small of her back, and she could feel his wand between his fingers. "Please," she begged, the memories of the pain still fresh and terrible in her mind, "Don't—"

"I won't," He uttered, his fingers curling around the underside of her jaw. Her breath hitched at the intimacy of the act, her mind whirling at the conflicting sensations of one hand caressing her jaw and the other pressing its wand warningly into her back. Her hand, she realized, was still resting against his abdomen, and she could feel the muscles tense and tighten under her fingers.

It frightened her, because she didn't understand what was going on.

"May I leave now, Professor?" She asked. He studied her for a moment, looking almost surprised to hear her ask. After a moment, his expression suddenly changed. His hands withdrew and his jaw clenched and he pulled entirely away from her. Her knees buckled at first, but she managed to catch herself before she became a crumpled heap at his feet. She took a few steadying breaths as he watched her, his expression absolutely unreadable. For a moment, he had looked at her with something similar to intimacy—crazed and absolutely terrifying, but intimacy nonetheless. Now he regarded her with a blank expression.

She glared viciously at him as she righted herself against the wall. "May I leave?" She repeated.

He gestured to the door and she practically fled.

—

"I was wrong."

"But Hermione, I don't understand—"

"I was _wrong,_ " She stressed, "It isn't him."

"If something happened—"

"I would tell you," She promised, and both Ron and Harry watched her with concern, "I promise I would. Nothing happened. I just…" she hesitated, her eyes drifting over to the professor's table, "I had a realization is all."

"But the Basilisk—"

"Is still an issue," She assured, "The only difference is we don't know who commanded it."

"I don't trust him," Ron seethed, following her gaze.

"Do you trust me?" She demanded. He scowled at her for a moment before nodding. "Good. Then _forget_ about Professor Riddle."

"'Mione—"

"I'm serious." She stressed.

"But how can you know for sure?" Harry asked, "Did he say something? Do something?" He paused, hesitant, then added, "To you?"

He heart skipped a beat. He didn't know how right he was. "No," She lied, "But…he doesn't believe in blood purity."

"Oh please," Ron scoffed, "He's a Slytherin—"

"He's half-blood." She interrupted. Her theory was only half baked. She knew Riddle was a muggle name, and he was likely to be related to Salazar Slytherin. It didn't take much to assume he wasn't entirely pureblood but not entirely of muggle blood either. Harry and Ron sat in silence for a while.

"Could a half-blood control the basilisk?" Harry asked.

Hermione doubted blood purity and anything to do with controlling the basilisk, but still she said, "I don't think so."

"Shit," Ron swore, "We're back to square one."

"Not quite," Hermione admitted, glancing at Riddle again, "Do you think we could flood the girls' restroom with roosters without anyone noticing?"

Ron and Harry glanced at each other in obvious confusion.

—

In the end, the answer was yes. They could.

Except of the fact that people definitely noticed.

It was a bit of a mess, sneaking the roosters in, and once they had them all in the girl's toilet—the very one she knew held the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets—they could do nothing but leave them there screaming and calling and flapping about. So, in the morning, the whole school knew about the 'prank' with the roosters in the toilet.

She didn't have defense class that day, but during lunch she saw Professor Riddle glowering murderously at her from the teacher's table, and she knew there would be some sort of retribution. But at least this way, even if he killed her, he wouldn't have that beast to blame it on.

Still, his vicious glower was unsettling. He really did look like he wanted to kill her now.

He didn't linger on her—for how strange would it look if he were to glare at her all lunch period?—He turned his attention back to his food and back to the teachers around him, settling into his charming persona once more.

Immediately after dinner, she began to head to her dorm to try and to figure out what the hell she was going to do tomorrow when she inevitably faced him in class.

He would know it was her. Not amount of denying it would be worth it. How could it be coincidence that someone's idea of a prank would take place in that bathroom, with roosters? How could it be coincidence that the one weakness of a basilisk was flooded into the entrance to its hiding place?

She paused in the corridor for a moment. Tomorrow would likely be explosive, if she knew Professor Riddle at all. And if she was going to die, she would likely need more than just Ron and Harry knowing her side of the story—especially after she told them it was a misunderstanding.

With the thought of her possible demise within 24 hours, she turned on her heel and hurried down the hall to the Headmaster's office. She wasn't entirely sure what she would say—telling him everything might alter his response as to what role he played in it all, and she didn't want that. She wanted to know why he had insisted Riddle come back this year instead of next. She wanted to know what he could have possibly thought Tom Riddle could do this year that he couldn't in a year's time.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore greeted with a smile and sparkling eyes, "What a surprise. Come in."

She settled herself in the seat across from him at his desk.

"How are your classes?" He asked amicably.

"They're…" She hesitated, "They're fine. That's not why I came to talk to you, though."

"Is it about the prank in the girl's bathroom?" He guessed. She start at him in poorly hidden shock, "I take it you know who it is?"

She relaxed. He expected her to sell them out. That did sound like something she may have done when she was younger, but considering she was the one to orchestrate the 'prank' she certainly wasn't about to do it now. "No," she admitted, "I don't, actually. That's not what this is about either."

He observed her quietly over his glasses.

"This is…I wanted to ask you about Professor Riddle, actually."

He sighed tiredly through his nose, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands in front of him. "I feared you might," He admitted.

Treading carefully, Hermione started from the beginning. "I understand that, after my petrification, Professor Riddle—allegedly—spent every day at my side."

"He did," Dumbledore confirmed, nodding for her to continue.

"We…spoke," she admitted, "When he began teaching. He said he was going to wait until next year, but you insisted he return this year." She leveled him with a steady gaze, "Why?"

"He was the best man for the position—"

"Please do not insult my intelligence," She snapped, then hastily added, "Headmaster," For respect. "I know that there are plenty of people willing to take the position, and as it changes every year, there is no doubt Professor Riddle could have taken the position next year with no problems. I want to know why he's here _now_."

Dumbledore sighed, again, and lifted his folded hands to rest them on the desk. Leaning forward, he said, "You are a student unlike any other I have ever seen," She hesitated in her suspicions, listening carefully as he continued, "The only student I have had like you would be Mr. Riddle himself. But he has lacked your…sense of righteousness."

That was an understatement if she had ever heard one.

"He was lost here. I admit I had my suspicions when the petrifications began, and the unfortunate death of Myrtle Warren, that he may have some hand in it." He paused, "You don't seem surprised by that suspicion."

She frowned, "It's not far-fetched," She admitted, and at his worried eyes, asked, "What changed your mind?"

"You did, Miss Granger," She resisted rolling her eyes, knowing that it had never been her intention to aid Riddle in any way, shape, or form. "The way he worried over you in the hospital wing was unusual for him. He would become quite fixated on books, knowledge, objects—I kept a close eye on him, so I've seen it. But never people."

"You think he's obsessed with me?" She echoed, remembering Draco's anger in the library.

"Not quite," He admitted, "I think he may admire you."

Suddenly angry, she huffed and shifted in her seat, "Headmaster, I did not come here to be patronized, if you expect me to believe—"

"I do not expect you believe a word I say," He assured her, his soft voice calming her anger, "But you have asked, so I shall answer." She observed him for a moment before nodding and allowing him to continue. "I admit I sometimes fall prey to romantic idealism. I like to think people can be saved."

"You think he can be saved?" She deadpanned, then adjusted her wording, "You think he needs to be saved?"

He picked up on her secrecy, and gave her a small smile. "I do not expect you to confess his sins," He said, "But yes, I think anyone can be saved."

She disagreed.

"Do you believe that an acromantula is responsible for the death of Myrtle Warren and my own petrification?" She asked quietly, her voice scarcely making its way across the small space between them. He hesitated.

When he finally responded, it was resigned. "I believe that it was the most…believable explanation at the time."

"What if it wasn't?" She mumbled, and his blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses with concern and suspicion, eyeing her as she had eyed him at the beginning.

"Do you have any other ideas, Miss Granger?" He asked.

She could tell him, she realized. She could tell him everything she knew about Tom Riddle. She could tell him everything she knew about the attacks on the students five years ago. She could tell him all about Tom Riddle's intentions with her—how he had not looked upon her with concern or admiration in that hospital wing but with fury and murderous intent. She could tell him.

But part of her believed he already knew. The way he looked at her now made her feel as if he was waiting on her to make the decision. He said himself he wanted Tom Riddle to be saved. How could he make such a statement if he didn't already know what he needed to be saved from? She gritted her teeth under his close scrutiny.

"That's why I'm asking you, Headmaster," She said. He nodded, leaning back in his chair again.

"If he does anything to you, Miss Granger, makes any advances or otherwise—" He already has, she thought to herself, "You must tell me. I am allowing him here under the impression—" The mislead hope, "that he will contain himself. If anything becomes out of hand—"

"Of course I would tell you," She interrupted, feeling exhausted with talking around what they both already knew but didn't want to face, "I would tell you right away."

"Are you certain that's all, Miss Granger?" He pressed. He would take action, she knew, if she told him. If she told him that she knew without a doubt that Tom Riddle was a murderer and a blood purist and he intended to kill again, he would take care of him. She knew he would.

But she snapped her mouth shut and nodded and left.

It didn't matter, anyway. The Basilisk was dead. Tom Riddle only had the rest of the school year left before he would likely lose his position, as did every professor before him.

She could handle him until then.

—

That night, in the middle of a fitful slumber, she was startled awake by Ginny Weasley panicking at her bedside.

"Hermione," She whispered harshly in the dark, otherwise silent room, "Something happened, you need to come with me!"

"Ginny?" She mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "What's—"

"We don't have time, come with me, please—" She gripped Hermione's hand and dragged her out of bed, not allowing her to grab a robe or shoes or anything. She was pulled along in her muggle pajamas, trailing behind the red-haired girl in shock.

"Ginny!" She scolded, tugging on her hand to get her to stop, "What is going on?"

"It's—It's—" She didn't respond, seemingly lost for words, "It's Harry and Ron, they've done something stupid, you have to help them, they're—I'll show you where they are."

She stumbled behind Ginny out of the Gryffindor common room and through the corridor, "Ginny, my wand, I'll need my wand if—"

"You don't need it!" She assured, pulling her along. "We don't have time to go back for it."

She couldn't imagine what had her so panicked, but it made Hermione immediately assumed the worst. What if they were half-dead somewhere in the forbidden forest? Or in the jaws of some new, hidden creature of Hogwarts? Should they get a teacher, maybe Dumbledore?

Her panicked mind was immediately quieted when Ginny pulled her into the girl's bathroom and Tom Riddle was waiting for her.

"Go back to your dorm and forget this in the morning," He ordered once they had entered, and Hermione watched in abject horror as Ginny did just that. Tom glared at her from his place hunched over the sink.

"You used the Imperius on her," She accused, watching the spot that Ginny had just been in with shock.

"Very astute," He mocked, rolling his shoulders as he straightened himself to face her.

"How could you—"

He advanced on her before she could continue scolding him—and that's what she meant to do, she realized. Scold him. As if it would make any difference. "You tried to kill it," He hissed, "You tried to kill something that has been a part of this castle for centuries—"

"It is a _stain_ on Hogwarts history," She spat, steadying herself as he raised his wand, "You can torture me all you want, but I don't regret killing that awful thing—" His hand wrapped around her throat, holding her still as he pressed the tip of his wand under her chin.

"It's not dead." He spat. She froze, and at her expression he erupted into laughter. It was higher pitched than what she had imagined it would sound like, and it chilled her. "You thought you succeeded?" He sneered, "You think you won?" He dug his wand painfully under her chin but cast no spell. "You have done _nothing_ but infuriate me from the moment I took notice of you."

She didn't know what to say. She was in a position where—if she died—there would be no proof that it had been him. Ron and Harry would suspect, of course. Dumbledore would suspect. Ginny would not remember ever leading her down here.

No one would be able to say, for certain, that the last person to see her had been Riddle.

A slow smile graced his lips, and it seemed he was aware of this as well. "Perhaps you would like to see it for yourself,"

She tried to pull away, but she had no wand to defend herself with as he wrapped his arm around her waist and hissed—the language sent chills down her spine. She watched as the sink he had been leaning over before moved, opened up large enough for Riddle to jump through with her in his arms.

They slid down a long way, Hermione clutching onto his robes without thinking, before they finally hit the ground. She rolled away from him upon impact, but by the time she had scrambled to her feet he had already closed his long fingers around her arm and was dragging her down the dark hall.

"Stop!" She ordered, pulling back. He was stronger than she was, and he continued to drag her down the hall. "You can't kill me down here. Dumbledore knows!"

He pulled her so harshly that she tripped over her own ankle and he was forced to catch her. She pushed against his chest as he drew her against him. "Your body could rot down here for centuries and Dumbledore would know _nothing_ other than you disappeared." He threatened. She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, and he continued to pull her down the hall.

They reached a large, impressive room with a statue of a wizard on the far wall. He pulled her in front of him, one arm wrapping around her waist, trapping her arms at her side and pulling her back flush against his chest. "Would you like to see it, now?" He hissed in her ear. She shook her head, "I'm sure it won't be pleased that you tried to have it killed." She turned her chin down and to the side and clenched her eyes shut, but he wound his free hand through her hair and pulled her head back up. She kept her eyes shut tight.

He hissed something, his breath fanning out across her neck and his lips brushing against her ear. She shuddered, listening to the sound of stone on stone and then the terrifying sound of scale on stone. She kept her eyes clenched shut, her breath shaking.

She could hear it slithering around them as Riddle hissed something to it. She couldn't calm her breath, even as desperately as she tried. "Open your eyes," He demanded, and she shook her head wildly against his grip. "Open your eyes, Miss Granger," He said again.

"No."

With a noise that sounded something similar to a growl, he cast a body binding charm on her so that his arm that had been wrapped around her waist could rise to force her eyelid open, and on instinct her eyes focused on what was in front of her.

She gasped at the size of its body, stretched and curled in front of them. She followed the length of it, and noticed its head must've been somewhere behind him, because she saw no yellow eyes to send her to her death.

"This," He breathed against her ear, his arm winding around her waist again—although there was no reason to, as she couldn't move. "Is what you attempted to destroy."

Its body began to move, scales brushing against scales as it shifted, and on instinct she shut her eyes again. He shook her once, roughly, "Open your eyes!" He demanded, "Or I _will_ have it kill you."

She turned her head to the side—the only part of her she could still move—in an attempt to see him. She felt shock settle into her bones. He didn't intend to kill her?

Why the hell not?

He lifted the body bind on her, keeping her pinned against him with his arm. She watched as the long body slithered around he two of them, and she saw the head appear in her vision. She flinched violently against him, but he held her firmly. It's eyes were turned away from her as it headed toward the mouth of the stature—which was now open, she realized. It didn't go in, however only curled up at the entrance and tucked its head underneath its body.

"This is what you wanted to kill," He said, gesturing with the hand that was no longer gripping her hair.

"I didn't want to kill anything," She argued, and he turned her suddenly in his arms so that she faced him. "The only thing in here I want dead is you."

He laughed cruelly, "Oh, because of your crusade? Against pureblood supremacy?"

"You," She spat, shoving away from him with no success, "Are living in a world which doesn't exist anymore. Salazar Slytherin's ideologies don't apply to the world today. You're living in ignorance! All because of some personal vendetta against muggles—"

He threw her to the ground then, finally turning his wand on her in a way that suggested he intended to use it, not simply to effect as it had been before. She forced herself to continue. If he was going to kill her the least she could do was make him feel like shit beforehand, "Riddle is no pureblood name." She spat, "If your hatred of muggles doesn't stem from upbringing, it _must_ be from personal experience, you must've been raised with—" She cried out when he finally did curse her. She writhed on the cold stone floor in uncontainable agony. It was fiercer than the last time. This time his curse was fueled by anger, which apparently proved to be quite the enforcer.

When he lifted the curse, she spat blood from her mouth where she had bit her tongue, and forced herself to continue, "I don't give a shit if you go kill whoever it is that wronged you," She brought herself up on shaky arms, "Just don't take out your misguided anger on witches and wizards like me who have done nothing but _exist_ —"

"And what would you have me do instead?" He asked, and she knew from his expression and the way he still towered over her that he didn't actually care for her answer. He was mocking her, indulging her, allowing her a moment of disrespect before he inevitably ended her life.

"I would have you _fuck off_ somewhere very far away and leave me the _bloody hell alone_ ," She spat viciously.

He stopped then, his body tensing as he regarded her and she knew this was the moment. His wand was still held out toward her, ready to cast the final spell. She glared at him from her place sprawled out on the ground. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her afraid anymore. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her back down. She had no way to fight back, she had no wand—he was entirely in power but she refused to let him see her bow to him.

Then, his mouth twitched, and he begun to laugh.

She had never seen him laugh before, not like this. She had heard the quiet, intimidating chuckles when he was barely amused. She had heard the high pitched, crazed laughter when he was half-mad. But this was…this sounded like genuine, heartfelt, gasping laughter. Bubbling from his throat, not as deep as the chuckle or as high as the craze, but somewhere in the middle. Something so ordinary and so docile that—for a moment—she thought he was someone else. She thought maybe it was Harry or Ron under a polyjuice potion playing a trick on her.

That's how unsettlingly normal his laugh was. The idea of Harry and Ron playing a trick on her at the moment seemed more believable than this genuinely being Tom Riddle's laugh.

Why are you laughing? She wanted to ask. Are you mad? But the sounds never made it past her throat, and she was left gaping, opening and closing her mouth in shock as he fell to pieces, his wand arm falling to his side and his free hand covering his mouth as his body shook, racked with laughter.

It subsided after maybe twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. She hadn't thought to pick herself up off the ground yet, so she stared at him from where she was sat on the cold stone floor. He turned back to her—as he had turned away during his laughing fit—and gazed down at her with a very strange, satisfied look about his face. She glared.

"I have tried to kill you," He commented, his tone light as if they were discussing the weather, "Yet you speak to me as if I am nothing more than an annoyance."

"You _are_ an annoyance," She spat. He laughed again, shorter this time but the same sound. Her breath hitched, because this time he hadn't covered his mouth and she saw him smile.

Merlin, he was crazy as fuck. He was absolutely bonkers, completely mental, there was something terribly, terribly wrong with him—there had to be—but he was so infuriatingly beautiful and every feeling she ever had as a twelve year old was rearing its stubborn, ugly head.

He looked young when he smiled. With his usual severe expression, he looked to be about thirty, and she forgot he was only twenty-two. When he smiled, he looked her age, almost. He looked youthful. He looked good.

He wasn't. Good, that is. She had to remind herself of that fact. He was intelligent and beautiful and ambitious and intense, but he wasn't good.

She brought herself shakily to her feet. He watched her as she struggled to bring strength back to her legs—he had tortured her again, after all—but he didn't move to help her. She was happy he didn't.

"I want to kill you," He admitted quietly, "But I also want you alive. It's a disconcerting feeling." She wasn't sure what to say. She glanced over at the Basilisk, still curled up by the statue. "If you close your eyes I'll order it away."

"No," She said suddenly, turning back to him to see him regarding her with a single raised eyebrow. "Could I…?" She wasn't sure how to phrase her question. She wanted to touch it—when would she ever get the chance to be around a basilisk again?—but she wasn't sure if it would raise its head and kill her. "Will it…?"

He seemed to understand, which infuriated Hermione because really he shouldn't, and he hissed a command. The Basilisk didn't move, but Tom gestured for her to approach it.

She did. She slowly walked toward it, her bare feet padding across the stone floor. She kneeled beside the massive creature, ran her hand along its huge scales. She felt it breathe against the pressure of her hand. It didn't move.

"What did you say to it?" She asked.

"Hide your eyes." He responded, and she jumped when she realized his voice was coming from directly beside her. She turned to face him where he was crouched beside her. She eyed him suspiciously—he wasn't angry anymore, it seemed. His anger had diffused suddenly and strangely out of nowhere.

It was extremely difficult to keep up with his mood swings.

He was still evil. Nothing that had transpired here probably changed his mind about anything. He still saw her as some sort of exception to the rule—the rule being that muggleborns didn't deserve their magic. He was still a murderer. He still wanted to kill her, even if he also didn't.

And he was the only person she knew who could speak to snakes.

"Could you…" She hesitated, watching the way his eyes darkened as she spoke, "Could you teach me?"

He didn't look surprised that she asked, but he didn't look like he expected it either. "He won't listen to you," He said.

"I'd still like to learn," She insisted.

He was quiet for a moment, almost as if he were figuring out the meaning of her words, before he said it again, slowly and clearly so she could hear every hiss and breath and sound. The way he said it now, slowly and quietly and so near to her, sent a heat she refused to acknowledge straight past her stomach and to a place she refused to think about. When she didn't respond right away, he said it again.

She sucked in a shaky breath and tried to repeat it, the sounds unfamiliar on her tongue, her mouth unaccustomed to the sounds she was trying to produce. It was a horrible attempt, and she saw his lips twitch into what may have been a smile, but it seemed he wasn't going to break out into the laughter he had allowed before. He raised a hand press his thumb just under her mouth.

"The front of your mouth," He commanded, "Not the back of your throat," And he said the phrase again. She watched the movement of his lips, the flash of his tongue and teeth and tried to ignore the thoughts that took over and instead focus on the language. She did as he said, focusing the sounds to the front of her mouth. She thought it might've been quite good until she saw his expression—one of mild amusement and mocking. She frowned and tried again.

He repeated it, stressing the syllables she missed, and she was more than aware of his hand on the bare skin of her thigh as he said it. His fingers stretched and flexed across the heated flesh, and she was surprised at how good it felt to have him touch her. She reminded herself that not five minutes ago she was writhing on the floor under his wand and he in no way deserved these thoughts, and she focused on the phrase. But as she spoke, his hand moved upwards, his thumb trailing along the inside of her thigh.

Just when she thought she got it, he responded with something else. "That was different," She said, "What did you say?"

He hesitated. His hand had made its ascent up her thigh, his thumb barely a breath away from where she so desperately wanted him—but she wanted him to pull away, too. She understood what he meant about that disconcerting feeling of wanting one thing while also wanting the opposite.

He did pull away, in the end. "What did you say?" She repeated.

"Close your eyes, Miss Granger." She knew that wasn't an answer but merely an order as he ignored her question, but she dutifully obeyed. She felt the snake beside her shift and slither away from her, and when she heard stone on stone she opened her eyes to see Professor Riddle's intense gaze on her.

He was an insane, evil, blood supremacist who wanted to kill her and everyone like her, and on top of that, he was her professor. She had no right to be thinking about the feeling of his hand on her thigh. And _he_ had no right to be _placing_ his hand on her thigh, but it seemed he had realized that a moment before she did, as he was standing quite a bit away from her now. Still, it shocked her how much she wanted him. How despite everything she knew him to be she still felt so intimately drawn to him.

She worried what this moment might mean for the rest of their year together.

—

 **HOLY GUACAMOLE. I did NOT expect this story to get so much love! Like….it has not been out long but I am getting SO MUCH LOVE FROM YOU GUYS this is unreal. Thank you so much, I'm so glad you liked it!**

 **I was going to wait a bit before posting chapter 2 because I was like….ok….people need to see the first chapter before you hit them with the second. But the response I got from you guys was so much bigger than I expected, that I couldn't wait.**

 **So! Here's chapter 2. Chapter 3 is almost done, and then there will be a chapter 4, and then it'll be done. It's not a long story!**

 **Anyway, please review! It really does push me to update, the only reason I'm updating this so soon is because of your responses! Thank you so much!**

 **(As always, because I'm shit, if you see any weird typos or grammatical mistakes, feel free to let me know. I do go through and fix them if you find any that I missed)**


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione thought that she might have _at least_ a few weeks of awkward lessons and avoidance in order to sort out her conflicting feelings regarding Tom Riddle, but it seemed that she would not.

"Miss Granger," He called out as she was leaving their first class together since the incident—as she had referred to it. She paused, looking back as Ron and Harry tensed at her sides. "Stay."

She clenched her jaw and waved the boys off with an uneasy smile.

"Should we wait outside?" Harry asked. Hermione shook her head.

"I'll see you at Dinner." She said.

She hadn't told them anything about her time spent in the Chamber of Secrets, but she imagined they could tell that something in the atmosphere between Tom and Hermione had shifted.

They hesitantly left, and Tom waved the door shut, locked it, and silenced the room.

"I thought we might've moved past threats by now," She commented, slowly approaching the front of the classroom.

"I've made no threats," He pointed out.

"You locked the door."

"I don't want anyone to interrupt."

Her heart thumped in her chest. "Interrupt?"

He eyed her. "Our conversation," He said, as if he knew where her thoughts has gone. She felt angry, because if her thoughts did ever head in that direction it was entirely of his own doing.

"Our conversation, then," She snapped, leaning against the front desk as he leaned against his teacher's desk, mirroring his posture. "What's it about?"

"In the chamber…" He began, his voice—deep and smooth and sinful—wrapping around her like a vice, reminding her of the way she felt when he spoke in less dulcet tones, when he had taught her parseltongue. She waited for him to mention it, to bring up the very thing she had been dreading. "You mentioned Dumbledore."

Oh. That was not what she was expecting.

"Yes," She agreed hesitantly.

"What does he know?"

She frowned, not seeing the point of lying to him as he obviously already knew the answer. "You know as well as I do that if Dumbledore knew anything about you with certainty, you wouldn't be here." Then, after a brief hesitation, continued, "He's not your biggest fan."

He scoffed. "An understatement," He said, approaching her. "But I wanted the reason for his insistence of my return this year."

She watched him warily. That was a stranger subject.

"He seems to believe I can save you." She admitted. He scoffed again, looking entirely disgusted and unamused.

"Save me from what?"

"From yourself, I suppose." She admitted, and though he still hadn't moved away from her, she found the strength to continue, "Save you from your ignorant, ancient ideologies?"

He glared at her.

"No, honestly," She pressed, "Explain to me how anything Slytherin believes can apply to today. Every time I mention it you go silent. I refuse to believe that someone as intelligent as you can actually buy into some ancient bigot's biased views."

"I believe," He intoned, "That you forget who you are talking to."

She fell silent for a moment, before shifting against the desk and continuing in a softer tone. "You aren't pureblood." She pointed out. His eyes snapped furiously to hers.

"Salazar Slytherin's blood flows through my veins." He rebutted.

"Alright, fine." She acquiesced. "So if Slytherin's blood cancels out your muggle blood, then take me." His eyes darkened at her wording, so she hurried on, "I'm entirely of muggle blood. I didn't even know magic existed until I was eleven and I'm still the brightest witch of my age." He seemed ready to reply, so she rushed onward, "And before you say that I'm some sort of exception, there's also Harry's mother, Lily Potter, who was the same. And then look at Draco Malfoy."

His eyes narrowed.

"Draco Malfoy is pureblood, so he should be—according to Slytherin's theory—the worthy one. Yet he's an entitled prick who couldn't be bothered to do any real work because he knows his father can buy him anything he wants. And on top of that he's a prat with no substance even outside of education." Riddle arms had settled on the desk either side of her while she spoke, and she hadn't even realized that he had moved so close to her. "And I know you hate him as much as I do, so don't pretend he has any redeeming features when we both know he doesn't."

"Muggles, and Muggleborns by socialization, are generally terrified of anything different from their social norms." He debated, "So much so that they are willing to destroy anything they do not understand."

"And wizards are so different?" She offered in response, "Look at the way Werewolves are treated. Because they are different, because they are uncontrollable, they are shunned. I won't say muggles don't often shun magical children, because they do, but it's not as if that is a quality that only muggles possess."

"You don't think it is a disadvantage that you were not exposed to anything magical before you began here?" He challenged.

"No more of a disadvantage than any pureblood's lack of understanding of Muggle technology." She said, "At least…I grew up in the muggle world and learned everything they had to offer. Then I came here and learned everything magic had to offer, and now…I'm smarter than any pureblood. And that's thanks to my blood, not despite it."

He was quiet as he reflected on her words. His hands—though she didn't notice, caught up in their discussion as she was—had settled on her arms, his thumbs shifting back and forth over her skin. "Has no one ever debated this with you?" She asked.

"I don't speak to mudbloods at length," He admitted. She rolled her eyes and pointedly ignored the racial slur.

"See, that's your problem." She said, "You entirely dismiss muggleborns as useless, but imagine—if we could combine muggle technology and magic for example—"

"Our magic interferes with electricity," He rivaled.

"I know," She seethed, annoyed that he felt the need to explain that to her, "But…imagine if you could find ways around that. If you could find ways to combine Muggle inventions—which are nothing short of incredible—with magical inventions—it's practically limitless what you could accomplish."

"You mention Werewolves," He commented, "Did it ever occur to you that muggleborns perpetuate the stereotype of werewolves being too dangerous for society?"

"It's perpetuated by purebloods, too," She argued.

"But did it not occur to you that without mudbloods' preconceived notions of werewolves that they would be able to find their place in society, as you seem to think they deserve?"

She huffed, "If muggleborns," She stressed the term, "Can accept that magic isn't as dangerous as they were told to believe, then they can accept that werewolves aren't either."

"You overestimate them," He murmured.

"I _am_ them!"

"No, you're _not_."

It was quiet, and she was only now aware of how closely she had allowed him during their discussion. He practically enveloped her, his body trapping her against the desk, his hands tracing soothing circles on her arms, his chin tucked into his chest to meet her eyes. It was all so terribly intimate, so strangely domestic.

"I am." She stressed, and he didn't reply. It was obvious his rebuttal had been without thought, as she obviously was one of 'them.' His denial was nothing more than a knee jerk reaction at hearing something he didn't like. His eyebrows were pinched together in thought, but he hadn't pulled away from her yet. She raised her hand—because he had touched her before, didn't she have the right to do the same?—and smoothed over the crease between his brows with her thumb. His hand had fallen from her arm to rest on her waist instead, and he regarded her with a strange weight in his gaze as she let her fingers trail down the side of his face.

In an odd moment of humor, and partly because this strange, intimate, and calmly enlightening conversation had her feeling very off kilter, she lifted her other hand to turn the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile and she laughed.

He kissed her.

While the moment had been light—despite the topic of their conversation—the kiss was not. He wrapped his arms around her back, one hand gliding up her spine to tangle in her hair. Her hands remained on either side of his face, simply to give herself some sense of control over his affections. His lips pressed against hers wildly, his tongue and teeth meeting her lower lip before she even had the chance to adjust.

Her breath caught when his tongue glided across the roof of her mouth, and her hands slid around his neck to sink into his hair as her tongue met his. Everything about him engulfed her—his scent, his touch, his taste, his magic. She felt something coil in her stomach, a familiar heat burning between her thighs as his tongue tangled with hers and his hands burned on her back.

He lifted her onto the desk, settling himself between her thighs and allowing his hand to begin the same slow ascent it had in the Chamber of Secrets. And she knew every reason she shouldn't be enjoying this, but at the moment she could hardly remember her own name, let alone the names of all the others he's wronged.

His hand reached its destination, his fingers curled against her hipbone under her skirt. His thumb pressed against her center over her underwear, dragging upward, and she pulled away from his mouth to gasp at the feeling.

The door behind them jerked violently and she heard someone outside say, "It's locked."

"What?"

Neither of the two occupants of the room spoke. His thumb lingered where it was pressed against her clit, and she wanted nothing more than to pull him back against her. His hair was longer than she realized, as now it was in wild disarray around his head, and he was flushed—the usually pale skin of his neck and cheeks were now glowing pink.

She remembered suddenly where she was.

"Professor," She said pointedly, and his shoulders stiffened at the title, "Let me down."

He stepped back from her. She slid down from the table, straightening her skirt and her robes, not bothering with her hair because it always looked messy anyway. Her hands were shaking as she picked up her bag. When she turned back to him he had fixed his hair and his flushed skin was pale once more. He looked entirely unaffected.

She left without another word.

—

"If he stares at you for another second, I will punch him."

"No, you won't, Ron." She sighed, refusing to look at the teacher's table.

He had stared at her all throughout dinner. In the classroom, they had been interrupted by two of his students coming early to his next class. She hadn't realized how long they had been in there together until they had been interrupted. She had thought, maybe, it would have ended then—that this wildly inappropriate thing they had going would be over now that they both realized what a terrible idea it was. But if the way he so intently examined her now was any indication, it had not ended.

He wasn't being as careful as he normally was. Usually, if he did want something with her, he would not stare at her so obviously in public. She might've been able to handle it if he had before—because then he had wanted to kill her. But now he wanted to…

A hot blush rushed up her neck over her cheeks and she turned her face down to her lap so her hair would hide it.

"What happened to have him so mad at you?" Harry asked, and she thanked any god there was that he assumed it was anger.

"We had a discussion," She said, "About…" She couldn't say it was about blood purity, as she had already lied about him not being a blood supremacist. "About muggle technology and magical advancements."

Ron screwed up his face in disbelief. "Hermione in what world does that explain him looking at you as if he wants to curse you where you sit?" She shrugged. "Are you sure he's not a murderer?"

"He's not." She insisted, angry at herself for sticking to her lie.

"Who's not a murderer?" Lavender laughed as she sat beside Ron. She kissed him soundly on the cheek and Hermione felt annoyed but not jealous, as she usually had. When she pondered this revelation, her mind was dragged back to the taste of her professor's tongue, and she had to halt that train of thought immediately.

Ron gaped for an excuse and Harry jumped in. "Malfoy." He said.

"Malfoy?" Lavender laved, "A murderer? He's a bit too cowardly, I think." She laughed again, then looked at Hermione as she continued, "Has he been bothering you, lately?"

Hermione was going to roll her eyes and comment that he was always bothering her, not only lately, but as she thought she realized that actually, lately he wasn't. She couldn't recall a moment in the past few days that he actually bothered her, and that was strange—he usually cut out a little part of each day to make her life miserable.

"Um…" She floundered, "No, actually?"

It was a bit quiet, then.

"Really?" Harry guffawed, "Serious?"

"Yeah," She laughed, "Now that I think about it he's left me alone the past couple of days. He cornered me in the library a few days ago, but…"

"Well, he's been focusing twice as much on me," Harry griped.

"He's just left you alone?" Ron asked, looking stuck between being pleased and being suspicious.

"Yeah," She said, "I guess he just lost interest…" She thought back to the last time he had bothered her, when Riddle had intervened. Was that the last time he had approached her? Her eyes drifted to the professor's table to find his eyes transfixed on her. When she met his gaze he held it, taking a slow drink from his goblet and examining her.

She didn't know what he wanted with her. She was his student—his muggle born student, while he was on a quest for the destruction of all muggle-borns.

She swallowed and looked away, training her eyes back on her food.

"Hermione?" Lavender called, and Hermione glanced up at her. "Do you think maybe he changed his mind?"

For a moment, caught up in her thoughts as she was, she thought Lavender had meant Riddle. And while she knew it wasn't true—how could he just give up his beliefs on blood supremacy after one conversation—she couldn't help but hope. What if Dumbledore's romantic ideals weren't entirely wrong?

"Um—oh, Malfoy—uh…Changed his mind about what?"

Lavender shrugged, "I don't know, about you? He hated you because you were a smart muggle-born, maybe he decided that doesn't matter?"

Ron and Harry erupted into laughter, causing Lavender to look very annoyed and put-out, so Hermione didn't have to answer.

"Yeah," Ron wheezed, "Right. Malfoy might've turned a new leaf."

"Yeah, and maybe he's focusing his attention on me because he's in love with me." Harry joked. Lavender huffed and stood up to leave. Ron stared after her in surprise, staring between her retreating form and Hermione and Harry.

"Oh for God's sake—go apologize Ron." She scolded, seeing Ron's relieved expression as she gave him permission to flee. He ran after his girlfriend, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

"Where's Ginny?" She asked.

"She's in bed," He answered, "She wasn't feeling well."

She frowned, "Is she alright?"

"Yeah," He said, nonchalantly taking a bite of his food, "She said she felt like she didn't get any sleep last night, so she's resting."

She nodded, knowing exactly why. "Right." She said, "Well, I hope she feels better."

She sighed, massaging her temples to try to relieve her headache. She needed to fix this—to end this. She had no business getting involved with a professor in the first place, but especially when said professor is also a murderer and a manipulator and a sociopath.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, at the same time as Hermione stood and said, "I have to go."

She went straight to Professor Riddle's office, putting her bag down beside his desk and knowing he would arrive any moment. He likely had wards set up to alert him if anyone ever entered—not to mention with how closely he had been examining her at dinner, he probably would have followed closely after her departure.

Her eyes caught on a slim, black journal on his desk, about the length of her hand. She picked it up—knowing she was being nosy—and was surprised at the familiarity of it. Not in the way it looked necessarily, but in the way it felt. It was warm in her hand, pulsating with magic she didn't understand and…

It felt like him.

Her heart skipped a beat in her chest as she examined the small object. She knew exactly what it was, she had researched them at length because of him. She felt disgusted—with him, with herself. Every time she allowed herself to forget exactly how much of a monster he was, he reminded her.

She heard him enter.

"What is this?" She asked before he could greet her. He approached her calmly, as if he wasn't bothered at all by what she held in her hands, and reached for it. She clutched it to her chest.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly, "Give that to me."

"Is it what I think it is?" She demanded.

"I couldn't possibly know what you think—"

"A horcrux," She clarified, and he sighed tiredly and waved the door shut, "Is it a—"

"Yes," He snapped, his fingers catching the journal and pulling it toward him. She didn't let go, so the action ended up pulling her close as well.

"Is it Myrtle?" She demanded, and he gazed down at her with irritation flooding his features. She clenched her teeth and tried to stop herself from screaming. "How could you? And how could you be so—"

"She was already dead," He drawled, "I didn't see the point in letting the body go to waste—"

"Letting the—" She choked on her reply, snatching her hand away from the journal as if it burned her. How could he be so heartless, so—but of course she already knew. He was a monster. He was a cold-blooded killer. A sociopath who didn't care about anyone around him. All he cared about was power. "You split your _soul_ —"

"Yes," He breathed, almost reverently, and his hands settled on her arms after he placed the offending object gently on his desk, holding her in front of him so she couldn't escape, "And now I can't die. Surely you of all people can see the value in—"

"The value?" She laughed bitterly, "The value in losing half your soul?"

"The value in immortality." He stressed. "The power in being unable to die. It can be destroyed, but not if its hidden. And not if there's more—"

"More?" She echoed. "No, you—you can't make more."

He sighed angrily, "Yes, I suppose your Gryffindor sensibilities wouldn't allow—"

"It has nothing to do with that!" She snapped, wrenching herself out of his grasp and taking two large steps away from him. "You've split your soul once, fine, that's bad enough. You split your soul again, you lose half of the soul you have left. Then again, maybe, and then again. You're left with barely a sliver of a soul, cutting it down by halves each time you—…Can you imagine what that does to your _sanity_?"

He regarded her silently, looking oddly confused. She shook her head angrily, "But you didn't think of that, did you? No, all you ever think about is power." She turned, intent on grabbing her bag and storming out, but his hands found her again, turning her back to face him and manhandling her, pinning her to the desk when she tried to pull away.

"What never ceases to amaze me," He hissed, "Is your inability to understand who is in power _here_." She stopped pulling away in order to glare furiously at him. "I suppose because of Dumbledore you now think its your job to _save_ me—"

"I could not be _bothered_ to save you." She spat.

His hand was suddenly resting against the side of her neck, his thumb edging under her chin to tilt her face up toward his. "No," He murmured, much closer than he should be, "No, I don't think that's true."

"Stop it." She demanded, her hands finding purchase against his chest in order to keep him at bay.

"You came into my office," He reminded her.

"I came here to tell you to leave me alone," She argued. His jaw clenched but otherwise he gave no response. "You are a murderer, a sociopath, and my professor, _and_ an arsehole—I don't want this, I want nothing to do with you, I want—"

"I want _you_ ," He interrupted, his eyes meeting hers in the same strange form of confusion that had been there a moment before. She felt her breath catch in her throat. "Isn't that odd? You." His knee slid between hers and his hands wrapped around her wrists, "A student. A mudblood. A self-righteous one at that."

"Stop," She begged.

"Do you _want_ to tell Dumbledore?" He asked, leaning in until she felt his nose trailing across her cheekbone, into her hair, down her throat. "To have me exposed?" He dragged her wrists down to her side, and placed her hands on the desk. She let him drag one hand back until her fingers brushed something warm and familiar and she knew it was the diary. "To exact justice for everything I've done to you, and your friends, and _Myrtle_."

"This is enough," Her voice wavered, "You've made your point."

He hesitated, then—almost as a test—he lifted his hands off her wrists and allowed his hands to hover above them for a moment. She didn't move, and after a long moment, he moved his hands to settle on her waist instead. "Myrtle was an accident," He continued, "But you wouldn't have been."

She didn't respond.

"I would have done the same to you." He promised, "You would have been the second."

"You've made your _point_." She snapped.

"And what is my point?" He asked calmly, his lips moving against her throat.

"That you can't be saved, that you're evil, that you'll kill me if I—"

He laughed against her throat, the same kind of laugh as in the chamber, and she fell silent. She lifted her hands to his forearms, ready to push him away, but she stopped when he pressed his lips against her pulse point—she could feel the curve of his smile against her skin and it unnerved her. Her hands rested, useless, against his arms.

"I see…" He rumbled, his low voice vibrating throughout her entire body as he drew her entirely against him, "A kindred spirit in you, Miss Granger." His hands moved, one drawing slowly up her spine and the other boldly sliding below her waist, gripping her ass and pulling her tightly against him. She let out a shuddering breath against his shoulder. "Unfortunately," He continued, his tone light and almost teasing, his lips pressed against her ear as he spoke, "Your Gryffindor placement has cultivated a decorum that I _cannot_ allow."

Fear took hold of her heart. "What does that—"

He spun her around before she could finish, drawing her back against his chest as the edge of the desk pressed painfully against the tops of her thighs. He slammed her hands down on the desk, one hand landing on top of the journal. She went to pull her hand away, but found it stuck. "Professor—" He shushed her, his breath rushing across her jawline as he pressed his lips to the corner of her jaw and down her throat. His hand pressed against her stomach while the other drew her skirt up around her waist.

"How do you," He breathed, his hand cupping her over her underwear. She tried to pull her hands back to halt his arm, but still couldn't remove them from the desk. He hissed, catching her earlobe between his teeth before continuing, "Reduce me to this," He pulled her back, flush against him so she could feel how hard he was behind her. "Weak," He said, "Desperate," He slid his fingers under the boundary of her knickers. She moaned, breathless, as his index finger slid into her folds.

"I'm your student," She gasped, dropping her head forward as he slid his finger slowly up and down her cunt.

"Then tell me to stop," He purred, sliding his finger inside of her briefly before exiting, dragging it up and circling her clit. She bit her lip against the sounds threatening to escape. She didn't want him to stop.

"I find that there is little I wouldn't do for you," He said, his finger sliding inside of her again. She let out a shuddering breath and he pressed his mouth against the back of her shoulder as he spoke, his words muffled by her skin. "I would kill for you," He admitted, curling his finger inside her and dragging it out. She felt him smirk at the noises it drew out of her. "I've wanted to. I wanted to kill Malfoy for you but I didn't because you wouldn't want me to."

She whimpered as his finger found a rhythm, his thumb pressing against her clit and his other hand sliding up to cup her breast through her shirt. "I wanted to kill Weasley," He growled low in his chest, and she felt it reverberate through her, "When he put his hands on you, but I didn't. Because you wouldn't _want_ me to."

He added another finger, his tongue meeting her shoulder as he placed open mouth kisses up her neck. "I wanted to fuck you," He rasped, "In the chamber, but I didn't. Because you wouldn't _want me to_." He curled his fingers inside her and scraped the nail of his thumb lightly against her clit and relished in the moans that spilled form her lips. "Do you want me now?" He asked.

"I'm a mudblood," She reminded him, desperate to avoid the question, desperate to deny the reaction of her body. Her head was spinning with the ministrations of his hands and his mouth, and she could feel his magic not only from the body behind her but from the journal under her hand that she couldn't pull away from. It was a constant reminder throughout all she was doing of exactly who he was, of what he had done. She keened as he added a third finger, pushing herself against him as he kept his rhythm, sliding in and out while alternating pressure on her clit.

"I don't care," He growled, pressing the pad of his thumb firmly against her clit and pushing his fingers inside of her, curling against her and holding them there as she spasmed around him, her head falling back to rest against his shoulder as she cried out. He let out a shaky breath, one that racked his whole body, as she came. Her fingers dug into the wood of the desk and the leather of the journal, and when she suddenly realized that she could move her hands again, she gripped at his arm and held his hand against her until she had come down from her high.

He withdrew his fingers and placed his hands on her hips to turn her around to face him again. She tried to calm her gasping breaths, but it was difficult with the way he was gazing at her now. His eyes were half-lidded, smoldering, and impossibly dark, gazing at her with unrestrained lust. "Just because I want you," She said, and she felt his hands tighten on her waist, "Doesn't mean its right."

A dark smile graced his lips before they met hers. "You're the only one among us who cares about _right,_ " He murmured against her lips, his tongue sliding between her teeth to tangle with hers. She raised her hands to thread into the silky texture of his hair, and he groaned haggardly into her mouth. He lifted her onto the desk, pulling her hips tightly against his and tracing his tongue down her throat.

"Professor," She gasped, sliding her hands to his shoulders.

"Hermione," He moaned, and her hips bucked against his at the sound of her name falling from his lips. His hands clutched at her waist in a way that was nearly painful.

"Stop!" She demanded suddenly, and his lips halted their movement against her neck. He froze, as if waiting to see if he heard her wrong. "Stop." She repeated, more calmly this time, and his hands dropped from her waist and he backed away enough to allow her breathing room. She pushed him further and he allowed it, watching her with an expression that lay somewhere between anger and desperation. She was surprised to find that he didn't seem willing to force her, but thankful, and she felt compelled to hurry before he changed his mind.

She swallowed, slid down from the desk and picked her bag up from the ground. "I won't be the exception to your…hateful rules." She spat, struggling to keep her breath steady. "I loathe everything you stand for."

"Hermione—" He began lowly, and she shook her head.

"No, this is—this is enough. It's enough." He reached for her, looking both annoyed and anxious, but she jerked back and pulled out her wand. He paused, his eyes meeting hers as his face went blank. He took another step back to allow her room to leave.

She hurried out the door.

—

She had thought avoiding him would have been hell, but as it turned out, it was simple.

She saw him in classes, but he was the same strict, slightly cruel but always charismatic defense teacher that he had always been. He no longer watched her during meals, he no longer approached her outside of class.

He ignored her.

She dreamed of him.

She was loosing sleep. Every night she would dream of him killing her or fucking her or both—she would wake in a cold sweat , her heart beating out of her chest, and tears welling up in her eyes.

This whole situation was infuriating.

Tom Riddle was horrible. He was bigoted, dark, vicious and cruel, and he wanted everything she couldn't abide by. He wanted the annihilation of muggleborns and he wanted immortality and power.

He wanted her.

She shut her eyes and banished the thought from her mind.

The only part of avoiding him that was hell was the fact that she didn't completely want to avoid him.

But she _did_. Of course she did, he was hideously evil, but he was also manipulative and handsome and he was often very good at reminding her why she loved him when she was twelve. It would be one thing if she felt some strange attraction to him while he still wanted to kill her—that would be messed up enough—but the fact that he wanted her as well, the fact that he was the one who made all the advances…

He seemed keen to believe that she was some kind of miraculous exception to his beliefs of muggleborns, and she hated that. But he hadn't killed anyone since being here, had he? Every other muggleborn remained blissfully oblivious to the danger that lurked in their defense classroom. So why was he here? If not to continue murdering those he deemed less worthy, why did he come back?

There was little she actually knew about Tom Riddle. Dumbledore wasn't one to give you all the answers right away, and of course Harry and Ron were entirely oblivious that Riddle was even still a concern. So who could she go to for information?

She knew who, but she certainly wasn't happy about it. Draco Malfoy.

She tried everything to corner Draco Malfoy for the next week, but every time she stepped in his path, he would just duck his head and move around her. She couldn't approach him at meals—not while Professor Riddle was sitting in the same room, not while he could see.

In the end, she had to convince Ron and Harry to help her. Which was a weird conversation.

"Let me get this straight," Harry said after she explained what she needed them to do, "You want us to find Malfoy and somehow force him to the Room of Requirement…to talk?" Hermione nodded, pursing her lips at his dumbfounded expression, "Well—"

Ron cut in, "What the bloody hell do you want to talk to him for?" He spat, "Hasn't he been leaving you alone?"

"Yes," She confirmed, "Thats why I need you two to help me speak to him. I can't talk to him otherwise."

"Alright, but why do you _want_ to?" Harry stressed, looking nearly pained.

"I have some things to ask him that only he would know the answers to." She answered vaguely.

"Well you might as well tell us," Ron said, "If we're going to hear it anyway."

"No, actually…" She hesitated, "I'll need you two to leave the room."

"What?" Ron griped, at the same time as Harry said, "Wait, are you sure you want to be alone with him?"

"Ron, calm down," She said first, seeing the way his face as getting dangerously red, "I don't mean to be secretive, it's just that…its private, and Malfoy's the only one I can ask—"

"Well we're friends, aren't we? Why can't you just tell us?"

"Ron," Harry intoned, and Ron reluctantly quieted down, "Can you at least tell us after?" He asked. Hermione nodded but she wasn't entirely sure she was telling the truth. Harry smiled tiredly at her, "Well," He said, "what are friends for?"

Ron reluctantly added, "Yeah, like I'm going to pass up a chance to rough up Malfoy."

"You're not roughing him up," Hermione scolded, "You're just bringing him to the Room of Requirement!"

They roughed him up.

When they deposited him across form her at the table in the room of requirement, his usually perfectly styled hair was a mess and his nose was bleeding. They threw him down and Malfoy glared at the three of them venomously.

"What the fuck, Granger?" He spat, "You some kind of cult leader now?" Her brow furrowed at the use of her name instead of his usual slur, but Ron didn't seem to notice as he got worked up at his tone.

"Hey!" He called, "Don't talk to her like that—"

She hated it when he tried to stick up for her—especially against Malfoy, who she was more than capable of handling—so she interrupted, "Thank you, Ron. Could you two step outside, please?"

Harry nodded and began to head out, before doubling back and dragging Ron out with him. Harry held up an unfamiliar wand as he left, saying, "We've got his wand, 'Mione, so give him hell."

She smiled at that.

Malfoy didn't. Obviously.

Malfoy glanced around himself anxiously, as if he was expecting someone else to be around. "Where are we?" He demanded.

"Alone," She assured, and while his glare certainly didn't light up, his shoulders relaxed a bit.

"What the fuck do you want?" He snapped, and Hermione pulled out her wand. He flinched in his seat, but all she did was fix his broken nose. He wiped at the blood and glared even more viciously at her.

"I want to talk." She said, and at his disbelieving, angry stare, clarified, "About Professor Riddle."

"No," He choked, throwing himself to his feet, "Absolutely—"

"Sit down!" She ordered, and she was surprised to see he did exactly as she said. "You're afraid of him, I get it, he's very…" She didn't want to say he was intimidating, lest Malfoy think she feels intimidated herself, so she settled for, "Intense."

He scoffed, but otherwise didn't reply.

"I won't tell him you said anything to me," She assured.

"You won't have to," He spat, "He knows everything."

She actually laughed at that, full-fledged smile and everything, and Malfoy looked absolutely horrified.

"You're crazy," He realized, "You've lost the plot."

"I'm not crazy," She said, though she wasn't entirely sure that was true, "Now, I'm going to ask you questions, and you're going to answer." She informed him, and he sneered at her.

"I am not—"

"You haven't called me mudblood," She pointed out, and his mouth snapped shut. "Not once since we came in here. Not once since our disagreement in the library—" he went abysmally pale at the mention "Why?"

He didn't answer, and instead fixed his hair.

"Were you not expecting that question?" She asked, genuinely curious. He breathed harshly through his nose.

"Do you want me to call you that?" He jeered.

"I don't care what you call me," She snapped, "I want to know why you stopped."

He didn't answer.

"That night he spoke to you in his office," She began, watching the way tension worked its way back into his shoulders, "After our disagreement…what did he say?"

There was something notably more tortured about his silence, now.

"Did he torture you?" She asked outright, and he flinched. She reached forward to grasp his hand that was resting on the table, "It's okay." She assured, "He tortured me, too."

He snapped his hand back and snarled, "Don't fucking touch me—"

She withdrew her hand, shocked at his anger. Sure, she was filthy in his eyes, but she wasn't sure that warranted such a violent response to her touch.

"You don't get it," He snarled, and she was half-delighted to see she had angered him without even meaning to, "You don't understand who he is—"

"He tried to have me killed when I was twelve," She deadpanned, "He tortured me when I confronted him about it and nearly fed me to his basilisk—" He choked on air, and that was when she decided that was probably enough information for him, "I think I know him quite a bit better than you believe I do."

"Then what the fuck do you want from me?" He snapped.

"I know about his dark side," She said, "But I don't know anything about who he is, or—"

Malfoy let out a bitter laugh, "You're a fool," He said, and she tensed in irritation, "If you think that he has any light side—"

"That's not what I meant." She defended.

"Of course that's what you meant!" He laughed, "You think you can save him from whatever demons plague him, or—"

"I want to know what he wants with me," She snapped, slamming her hands on the table and making Malfoy flinch, "I want to know why he's so fixated on me. You're the only one I can think to ask that."

"I don't know," He croaked, an obvious lie.

"Start with what you do know," She ordered calmly, but he didn't speak. He glanced at the door, as if he was considering making a run for it. "You will tell me," She said, "Or Professor Riddle might find me crying in a corridor after all the terrible things I say you've done to me."

His eyes practically bulged out of his head, "You wouldn't do that."

"I wouldn't," She agreed, "If you talk."

"That seems like a shit deal," He said, his voice shaking, "I tell you something, he kills me. I don't tell you something, you make sure he kills me."

"Malfoy," She assured, "I'm not going to tell him anything." Then after a moment, added, "If you tell me."

"Do Potty and Weasel know about this, then?" He deflected.

"What does Tom Riddle want with me," She seethed, determined not to let him distract her.

"I don't bloody well know, now, do I?" He snapped, throwing his hands up. "All I know is ever since he came in contact with my father, all he's ever asked me about was you." She blinked. How long had he been concerned with her? "How's Miss Granger," He mocked in a pseudo-deep voice, "What did Miss Granger do about that, What did you say to Miss Granger," He shook his head, running his hands compulsively through his hair to smooth it over, "When he found out what that bitch Umbridge did he lost his fucking head."

"What?" She uttered.

"He had my father get her arrested. I think he visited her in prison, once. I don't want to think about what he did to her—"

"Malfoy," She cut in, "How long has Riddle been in contact with your family?"

He shrugged, "Since third year."

"Third year," She echoed. He nodded. "He's been asking you about me since third year,"

"He's been asking me about you since fourth year," He corrected, "I made the mistake of mentioning you and once he realized I knew you, he's been pumping me for information ever since."

"What the fuck," She groaned, sinking her fingers into her hair. "What does he want?"

"I don't know." He snarled, "You're just some fucking m—with your dirty blood. My father talks about how he'll bring in a new era, but I don't see how he'll do that if you're—"

She cut him off, "Say it." She ordered, "Say mudblood. Say it now."

He didn't say anything.

"You can't," She realized, "When he tortured you after the library, he—you really can't say it?" To be honest, she was a bit amazed and a bit happy that he may have cursed Malfoy so that he couldn't say that word. It was something she always wanted to do, but wouldn't allow anyone to think that the word effected her.

"I can't say it to you," He clarified, and she felt suddenly angry.

"But you can still say it." She guessed, and he nodded. Just not to her. Of course. "Why does he hate them?" She asked after a pause, and Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Because they're useless—"

"I asked why _he_ hates them, not you," She cut in. His jaw twitched.

"He grew up in an orphanage or something—" She flinched, and he misinterpreted it, "What? You threatened me to tell you everything, I'm not going to hold back and have you turn to—"

"A muggle orphanage?" She clarified, uninterested in his paranoia. He nodded. "And so he just hates all muggles by _association_?"

He shrugged, "I don't know."

She huffed at his nonchalant response, "There's a lot you don't know," She pointed out. He suddenly looked panicked.

"But I'm telling you _everything_ that I _do_ know." He assured her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Calm down, I'm not going to tell Riddle."

"Great," He snapped, "Wonderful, can we go now?" He stood again, his hands fidgeting with the collar of his shirt.

"We aren't through with our conversation—" She began, but he cut her off.

"I don't bloody care—I'm through with this—"

"Sit down, Malfoy!" She barked. He did, to her surprise, and she couldn't help but ask, "Did he curse you to obey my every whim as well?"

He grit his teeth and glared at her. "No." He spat.

"Then why do you listen?" She demanded, "Why do you sit whenever I say so—like a dog?"

"Because you're on his _side_ , aren't you?" He snapped, and she reared back in shock. She most certainly wasn't on his side, she wasn't anywhere near his side, but before she could respond he continued, "You—You're with him, you—you and him are like—" He cut himself off, his mouth snapping shut and his hands—which had been wildly gesturing along with his words—fell into his lap.

"Equals," She finished for him, and at his scathing glare she added, "Not in your eyes, but you think…you think _Tom_ thinks we're equals."

"Well, you called him Tom," He pointed out, as if that proved his point. She paused, because she hadn't meant to.

"When we were on the train," She started quietly, "You warned me about..what he would do to me—" It was a warning that, at the moment, she had brushed off as Malfoy trying to get a rise out of her. But in light of all the recent events, and in memory of Riddle's fingers in her cunt, she couldn't help but wonder if Malfoy knew all along the nature of Riddle's obsession.

"Well, he's done it, hasn't he?" He asked, appearing entirely nonplussed, and she nearly choked at how at ease he was. "You said he tortured you."

Her eyes widened as she desperately tried to reign in her thoughts. Oh, he didn't know what she meant at all. "Torture, yes." She stammered, "He did, he tortured me, yeah."

Malfoy observed her far too closely for her liking, and to her horror, something like realization dawned on his face. "Holy shit—" He started, and she opened her mouth to parry whatever it was he was about to spew, but she couldn't think of what to say, "He _fucked_ you?" He sneered, looking more disgusted than she had ever seen him.

"No!" She denied, because he hadn't—technically—fucked her. "He did not _fuck_ me,"

"He may be obsessed with you," Malfoy sneered, "But that doesn't change the fact that he wants to destroy everyone like you—"

She pulled her wand out, standing and leaning over the table to press it against his throat. He fell silent, but her ugly sneer remained as he regarded her. "You don't have to remind me what he's done and what he wants to do, Malfoy, I know."

"And you still let him _touch_ you?" He spat, "Like some _filthy_ whore—"

She slammed her wand down on the table and punched him hard in the face, breaking his nose again. He swore loudly. "I should have never fixed it in the first place!" She spat, grabbing his tie and pulling forward so he was hunched over the table. "Now I'm going to ask you one last question, and you will answer it or I swear to God I will do so much worse than turning you in to Riddle." He nodded, wide-eyed. "You said your father believed Riddle will bring in some new era. What does that mean?"

"Nothing—it doesn't mean—" She narrowed her eyes and tightened his tie around his throat, "Riddle's building up something for—he wants to overthrow the ministry or something—I don't know, they don't involve me in stuff like that! Let me go!"

She did, and numbly she sat back down in her seat as he sputtered and coughed and loosened his tie. His voice had risen a few octaves when he finally said "You're fucking mad!" Followed by, "How dare you touch me!"

"You may leave." She said blankly, staring at the wooden table between them with something dreadful settling in her stomach. He sprung to his feet so quickly that his chair fell over, creating a loud bang that filled the small room. Hermione was so numb at the moment that she couldn't react, even as Malfoy practically tripped over himself to get to the door, swearing all the way.

Merlin, Tom Riddle wanted so much more than to just kill a few muggleborns. He wanted to wage a war.

Malfoy threw open the door and Harry and Ron immediately looked ready to fight him. "Let him go," She called, "And come in."

They threw Malfoy's wand at his feet and entered, shutting the door and coming to her side. She forced herself to meet their eyes.

She was a fool to think that she could ever handle Riddle alone.

"I may have lied to you about some things," She admitted in a small voice.

—

"So let me get this straight," Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were still in the Room of Requirement, seated around the table. "You knew Riddle was a murderer, you knew he controlled the basilisk, he _tortured_ you…and you _still_ decided to face him on your own."

She sighed, feeling like a scolded child, "I didn't realize at the time the extent of his—"

"He tortured you, Hermione!" Ron exploded, "Don't say you didn't realize—obviously you realized!"

"As far as I knew, the only person he had ever killed had been an accident, and he didn't seem intent on killing again. I assumed that he wasn't immediately dangerous, and I thought I could handle it on my own."

"Wasn't—wasn't immediately dangerous!" Ron gaped, "Hermione, he used an unforgivable on you!"

"And I didn't want him to torture you, too!" She snapped.

"Alright!" Harry interjected, "Alright, calm down. We need to talk this through."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "Yeah, we do. How about we talk through how you lied to us."

"I was trying to protect you!"

"We're your friends!"

" _Alright_!" Harry yelled, "What I want to know is why he hasn't killed you yet." Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. "If he knows you know everything…why are you alive?"

"He…" She glanced briefly at Ron and then focused on her hands. "I don't believe he wants me dead."

"You're delusional," Ron said, "You're a muggleborn, and he's a blood supremacist."

"I know," She seethed, "But…" She didn't want to admit it, she had been trying to avoid it. But considering the situation, she didn't have much other choice. "He seems to think I am some sort of exception, he has…made advancements."

It was painfully silent.

"Hermione…" Harry said lowly, "Do you mean…?"

"He kissed me."

" _Bloody fucking hell_!" Ron stood up and kicked his chair over. "What is wrong with you, Hermione?"

"I thought that I could handle it," She said slowly.

"Bullshit, 'you thought that you could handle it!'" He spat, "You shut us out because you wanted _him!_ "

"You know that's not true!"

"Ron, sit down so we can figure this out," Harry said calmly.

"Nah, mate," Ron scoffed, "I can't do this. I'm leaving."

"You can't leave," Hermione said, "We need to solve this."

"Hermione's right," Harry agreed, "If Malfoy was telling the truth about Riddle's intentions with the ministry…"

"It's likely he's using his time here to influence impressionable young minds. He could be building an army." Hermione added.

"Yeah," Ron spat, "And you could be a part of it, for all we know."

"How could you think that of me?"

"Ron, you _know_ that's not true." Harry scolded, "This is bigger than us. This is a future war we're talking about here. Sit down—please—so we can figure this out. Together." Ron hesitated for a moment before picking up his chair and sitting down, shoulders tense and a scowl on his face.

"Alright, Hermione," Harry began tiredly, "Explain everything again from the beginning, and then," He met her eyes and his tone held no room for argument, "We go to Dumbledore."

She grit her teeth and nodded.

—

 **WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW**

 **you all are beautiful I still CANNOT believe the response this is getting! You are all so wonderful it makes me so happy to hear from you and hear what you think. I'm so glad you're liking it so far.**

 **So one more chapter after this one! (I think, it might end up being two but I'm pretty sure it'll be just one…depends on the word count I guess)**

 **Thank you so so so so much for all of your kind words! Some of you are so generous in your praise I'm just in awe. I don't think I've ever gotten this kind of response for a story so I'm so excited that you guys are enjoying reading this, because I'm really enjoying writing it :) I'll be back soon with the final installment!**

 **And just holy shit ok someone commented that their friend referred them to this story and I just…! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! WHAT oh my god like I don't know why that makes me so happy but like that is so unreal that people are out there and they actually like what I write so much? ? ? ? ? that they refer their friends like I don't know that just kicked me in the face but like in a good way anyway thanks for reading guys I hope this chapter is still worthy of all your love and support I really love you all!**


	4. Chapter 4

The conversation with Dumbledore was mildly more uncomfortable than she thought it would be, mostly because he kept his irritatingly perceptive eye on her the entire time. He wasn't suspicious, exactly—he didn't have a right to be. He had kept secrets, too, after all. He had invited Tom Riddle back to the school even with his suspicion that he may be a murderer.

All because of his so-called 'romantic idealism.'

But she hated the twinkle in his eye now, as if he felt sorry for her. As if she had failed. As if it had really been her mission to save Tom Riddle's soul, and she had failed. But she couldn't save someone's soul if they were hell bent on ripping it apart.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said calmly when all was said and done, "Do you have anything to add?" She had remained stubbornly silent the entire meeting and allowed Harry to fill in the details.

She hesitated. "I think we should focus on what comes next," She finally replied.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed tiredly, "I only wish the three of you didn't involve yourselves with these matters."

"You can't expect us to just sit back and let things happen," Harry explained, "We can't do that."

"I know," Dumbledore said, "I only ask that, when you do decide to act, it is not without my knowledge and consent." Harry nodded quickly, and Hermione admired his bottomless trust for their headmaster.

"And when we act," Hermione said, "What would you have us do?"

He leaned back in his chair and regarded her quietly. She had to resist the urge to squirm in her seat at his piercing gaze. She met his eyes with equal fervor and thought to herself that his eyes were not quite as unsettling as Tom Riddle's, and she was thankful for that. "Our priority is to prove his guilt." Dumbledore said.

"But how can we do that?" She pressed, "Right now the only proof we have is the suspicions of three students, that's not enough. Even if I could offer a memory of his admission, it would still be my word against his—"

"Why do we need to prove anything?" Ron interjected, "Why can't we just throw him in the forbidden forest and let the centaurs have him?"

"Oh for God's sake, Ronald," Hermione snapped, "We can't just throw him to the centaurs—"

"Why, because you'll miss him?" He spat.

"Because he'll survive, you absolute troll!"

"The solution," Dumbledore interjected calmly, "Is not to kill Mr. Riddle, but to apprehend him. Killing him makes us no better than he is." Ron glowered in his seat.

"But how can we apprehend him if we have nothing against him?" Harry asked.

"If we can prove that the theory about the acromantula was wrong," Hermione offered, "If we can prove that the basilisk exists and is at fault,"

"Yeah but how are we supposed to prove that?" Harry pressed. Hermione hesitated, drew her lip between her teeth before she answered.

"I know where the chamber is." She admitted, "Where he keeps it."

There was a pause before Dumbledore asked, "Do you?"

Hermione nodded. "I've…I've been there."

Another pause and Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"You've been there?" Ron echoed furiously. "You've been where he keeps the basilisk? Hermione how stupid could you—"

"It wasn't exactly my choice," She snapped.

"Oh, brilliant," He snarked, "So after he tortured and molested you, he also tried to feed you to his pet, and you _still_ kept it a secret—"

"Both of you, please!" Harry begged, "Ron, the point is she's here _now_. You need to back the hell off."

"Back off?" Ron scoffed, "She lied to—"

"We can deal with that after Riddle is in Azkaban!" Harry interrupted. "Okay?"

Ron was scornfully silent.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore called, commanding the attention of the room once again, "Do you know how to enter the chamber?"

"It's in the girls toilet," She answered, "He…speaks parseltongue and it opens. Then at the wizard's statue he says it again and…and the basilisk comes out." After a pause, she added, "The Basilisk only listens to him."

"If we could get in, we can prove the basilisk exists." Harry said excitedly.

"But we can't prove that Tom had anything to do with it." Hermione added, and Ron rolled his eyes.

"Oh it's Tom now, is it?"

"Oh shut the fuck up, Ron!"

"Do you remember what he said?" Dumbledore asked. Hermione shook her head.

"I don't," She admitted, "But if we can withdraw the memory and I can watch it, I can learn."

"If we go down," Ron grumbled, "We'll need to keep that bastard busy so he doesn't come down, too. And kill us with his bloody snake."

Hermione couldn't help but comment offhandedly, "That's the only useful thing you've said all night," And she continued before he could try to start another row. "If we withdraw the memory and Harry learns, I can distract Riddle while you're down there."

"Hermione," Harry said slowly, "You don't have to do that."

"Yes I do," She countered quietly, "I'm the only one who can distract him without raising suspicions."

"That doesn't solve the issue of proving Mr. Riddle's involvement," Dumbledore said lowly.

"Well he was the one to offer the acromantula—surely that's enough to pull him in for questioning at least—"

"Tom Riddle is exceptionally talented at charming those he needs to," Dumbledore intoned.

"What if we slip him veritaserum?" Hermione asked. There was a lull in the discussion as the three regarded her in silence.

"'Mione, that's illegal," Harry finally commented.

"Yes, and so is murdering people," She snapped, "If we know when the Aurors are coming to question him, we can…I can slip him veritaserum. He'd have to tell the truth."

It was quiet. Hermione glanced between the three of them. Ron was still pouting, his arms crossed across his chest as he glared at his feet. Harry seemed to be considering the situation, his eyebrows pulled together in thought. And Dumbledore, well he stared at her like he always did, as if he was both impressed and suspicious.

"I believe it would work," Dumbledore admitted.

"So we'll contact the Aurors," Harry said, "I could get my dad in, probably. We'll get the basilisk and dose up Riddle in the same day, and we're done." He paused, and corrected, "He's done."

"Is it that easy?" Hermione murmured, a strange, dreadful feeling settling in her stomach.

"Well, we'll find out, won't we?" Ron grumbled.

She sighed tiredly, "Headmaster, do you have a pensieve?" Dumbledore nodded, and she lifted her wand to withdraw the memory of Tom Riddle and the Chamber, careful not to draw out anything he didn't need to see. She bottled it with a glass vial Dumbledore handed to her. "This has the word," Hermione said, "If you need any help learning it, tell me. This should get you in."

He nodded solemnly, taking the vial from her. "I'll start learning right away."

"You won't be able to control the basilisk once you release it," She said, "Only he can. You'll need to avoid its eyes or you'll die, and then…we can't risk Tom using it against us."

"He can't use it if it's dead," Ron said. Hermione started.

"You're going to kill it?" She asked.

"Well of course we'll bloody well kill it," Ron snarled, "What, you wanted to keep it?"

"No of course not." She snapped, "I just didn't realize. Just go, learn the password to enter and let me know when you need him distracted. I assume we'll have to contact your father before we start anything?" She asked. Harry nodded. "Alright. Let me know."

He nodded and left, dragging Ron with him. Hermione would have left as well, if Dumbledore had not called her to stay. "Please, Miss Granger," He said, "I would like a word."

Dutifully, she stayed put.

"I wish you would have told me," He said, eyeing her strangely across his desk.

"I'm sorry," She replied mechanically, not really meaning it but knowing it had to be said.

"I should not have implied that I wanted you to save him—"

"No, you shouldn't have," She agreed, "It is not my job to save him."

He nodded solemnly. "No, it is not."

After a pause, she added spitefully, "He cannot be saved."

He hesitated, taking advantage of the silence to observe her, before finally replying, "We will have to agree to disagree on that point."

"Are we done?" She snapped, "May I leave?"

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?" He asked. She allowed herself a moment to think, because as angry as she was with Dumbledore for expecting the impossible out of her, she still knew she had a duty to be sure any loose ends with Tom Riddle were tied up.

She thought of the horcrux.

"No," She replied at length, "Nothing."

He kindly saw her out of his office. She felt sick.

—

Attending class with Riddle after everything had happened was awkward and strange, and every time their eyes met the moment felt charged and uncomfortable. Her hand was still first in the air whenever her asked a question—because who would she be if it wasn't—but the way he looked at her had a name now.

He looked at her like he wanted her. Call it lust, desire—she knew what he was thinking when he looked that way.

But before speaking with Harry, Ron, and Dumbledore, that was all it was. He would look at her in a way that reminded her of everything he had done to her, and everything she had felt. Now, when she caught his eye in class, she would wonder if that look would change after she's had him sent to Azkaban.

She had to avert her eyes in class, now, because when she would think too much his expression would change and it made her feel so certain that he knew. It was paranoid and silly—if his expression changed it was likely due to her staring so openly at him while she thought, but it still left her with a disconcerting feeling.

She would have to speak to him again soon, whenever Harry heard back from his father, and she was dreading it.

"Hermione—" She jerked in her seat and turned to see Harry at her side, "Whoa, sorry—you zoned out. Are…are you okay?"

"Just thinking," She answered honestly.

"We're dueling now," Harry informed her, "Partners?"

She nodded, standing with him and moving to the edge of the room. Lost in her thoughts as she had been, she hadn't noticed that the other students had already spread out around the room to duel. She wasn't even sure what they were practicing, or—"What are we—"

Harry smiled—a bit sadly, if she were honest—and said, "General practice right now. He said he wants to see where we are in terms of holding our own in a duel."

"Any spell goes?" She asked.

Harry smiled crookedly, "Go easy on me, eh?"

She laughed, "As if you need it."

"Miss Granger," A familiar voice crooned, "Mr. Potter. Head girl and Head boy. I expect to see great things from the two of you," Professor Riddle—as he made his rounds to check on each pair—eyed Harry with little more than contempt before turning his gaze on her. She kept her expression carefully guarded as she met his eyes.

"Yes, Professor," The two of them intoned, and he gave them a tight smile—and her a subtle, lingering look—before turning and continuing on to the next pair. Malfoy cowered as he approached him and Goyle, but Hermione had turned back to Harry before she could observe the scene.

"Creepy bastard," Harry muttered, and she offered a weak laugh in response.

"Any news on your father?" She asked quietly.

"I haven't mentioned a name, but I told him I know who's responsible for Myrtle's death. He told me not to blindly accuse people of serious crimes," He smiled, "But that doesn't mean he doesn't believe me. I owled him back to tell him we have proof. I think he might come in within the week."

Hermione's breath hitched. "Within the week." She repeated. Harry looked concerned.

"You know that you don't have to—"

"Let's start the duel."

Harry had always been a good dueler. With a father, godfather, and whatever Remus was considered to be in terms of relation, all Aurors, (and all former-or-current pranksters) he was well versed in throwing offensive spells. Where he always lacked in academics—although she was certain that if he actually tried he wouldn't lack at all—he had made up for in dueling. Defense against the Dark Arts had always been the class he excelled at, so dueling him was fun. It was distracting.

But halfway through she was hit from a stinging hex from behind and purely by instinct she cried out, "Ow! Shit!"

She whirled around angrily to find the source of the curse and saw Malfoy standing with his wand outstretched and Goyle sprawled on the ground. Judging by the look on the former's face—pure, unadulterated horror—she could assume it was an accident. She pursed her lips as she regarded him before looking down at her arm. It was already bright red and was starting to swell. "He—He" Malfoy sputtered, "He ducked! I—"

She felt fingers wrap around her arm and pull it up to examine, and she threw Malfoy one last glare before turning to see Tom Riddle examining her arm, his eyebrows pinched together and mouth turned down in a frown. On instinct—because she had assumed it was Harry when she felt his hand in the first place—she flinched and drew her arm back, but his fingers tightened. She hissed at the pain and immediately he loosened his hold. He reached for his wand, but before he could raise it she had already lifted hers and cast the healing charm.

"It's fine," She muttered, and he released her arm immediately.

"Class dismissed," He called out, not lifting his eyes from her arm, his voice tumultuous. "Malfoy, stay behind."

She glanced over to Malfoy and felt so profoundly sorry for him for a moment. He looked ready to faint.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry ushered her out, and she met Tom's eyes as he dragged her away. He held her gaze until Harry forcibly turned her around and pushed her out the door. "God," He shuddered, "That was fucked up. The way he looks at you is chilling."

She nodded silently, glancing back at the door. She stopped for a moment, watching the students file out in mild confusion. They had been let out early—and all over a simple stinging hex gone awry. It was a dark curse, she supposed, but it certainly wasn't horrible. And it certainly didn't warrant calling off the class—especially since they both knew the healing charm to counteract it.

"Hermione," Harry called carefully, "Let's go."

"Go on without me," She said.

"Hermione, no!" He snatched her wrist, not angrily but worriedly. "You don't need too—"

"Malfoy hurt me," She snapped, "Professor Riddle—" she had to consciously avoid using his first name "Is going to do something horrible."

"You aren't responsible for him." Harry argued.

"It's because of me," She insisted, "I'm not going to let him suffer for a goddamn stinging hex." Harry looked ready to rebut, so she said very sternly, "No. Don't tell Ron where I am. I'll see you later."

"Hermione—"

"Please, Harry," She begged, "I'm just going to get Malfoy out of there. He doesn't deserve…all of that, because of me."

He looked extremely unhappy, but Harry was never one to push her when he knew she was steadfast. He was unlike Ron in that way. "Find me immediately after," He said.

She didn't bother promising anything as she turned on her heel and approached the classroom door. The door was already shut and locked so she knocked three times loudly. Almost immediately it swung open, and she saw Riddle and Draco standing at the front of the classroom, Riddle's eyes fixed on her. When he realized who she was, his expression changed—she would say it softened but that possibility made her uncomfortable, so she disregarded the thought.

"I would like to speak with Malfoy," She stated primly. A single dark eyebrow rose. He looked surprised, and like he was caught between being annoyed and being pleased. He didn't confirm nor deny her request, so she changed it to a demand. "Give me Malfoy," She ordered.

A slow smile stretched across his lips, and he jerked his head as if to say 'go ahead.' Malfoy tripped over himself to get out into the hall, stopping just outside the door and sputtering "Thank you, My Lord—" And she was so shocked and disgusted at how he addressed him that she grabbed him by the arm and practically threw him out into the hallway. He looked at her with similar terror in his eyes. "I didn't—"

"I know," She snapped, "Go."

"What?"

"Go." She ordered again, more irritably this time.

"I don't owe you anyth—" He started to say, and she rolled her eyes. Turning her back on him, she re-entered the classroom and slammed the door shut. Tom Riddle was leaning casually against his desk, his arms crossed in front of him, looking the very picture of nonchalance. He smiled at her.

"I don't need you to punish Malfoy for goddamn stinging hex," She spat, "I don't need you to punish Malfoy for me at all, I can take care of myself!" His smile didn't fall but his eyes narrowed for a moment.

"You're angry," He realized.

"Yes, I'm angry!" She confirmed, "You make me exceedingly angry."

"I'm sorry," He said, like he was teasing her. Like he thought this was a joke.

"No, you're not." She muttered, "Any fool could see that Goyle dodged a spell instead of deflecting it and it hit me. That's hardly a reason to harm Malfoy, or for cutting the lesson short, for God's sake—"

"Are you lecturing me?" He purred, pushing off his desk and slowly advancing on her. Her lip curled.

"I would never dream of lecturing you, _My Lord_ ," She snarled the title, trying to translate every hateful thought about it into her tone. He pursed his lips, not looking annoyed or angry as she thought he would, but instead looking a bit perplexed. "You're not a god," She reminded him.

"No," He agreed, "Perhaps a king one day," His tone was light, airy, the way one might speak when they're joking with a friend. She didn't like it, because this wasn't a joke and she wasn't his friend.

"The world doesn't need a new king," She told him. He laughed lowly.

"I don't care what the world needs." He said, his hands seeking her out, resting on her arms. She flinched, pulling herself violently out of his hold.

"Don't touch me," She spat. He clenched his jaw, his hands falling to his sides. There was something nearly tortured in his expression, in the way his shoulders hunched and his fingers twitched. He was very good at hiding it—he was very good at hiding everything—but she could see it.

"How long will you avoid me?" He asked.

"I loathe you," She reminded him, "I'll avoid you for the rest of the year and the rest of my life, I want nothing to do with you."

"Then why are you here?" He asked calmly, taking a step toward her but still keeping his hands to himself. "Why did you stay? You could have _saved_ Malfoy—" He sneered at that, "And then left, but you stayed behind." His lips twitched with the hint of a smile, "To lecture me. Why?"

"You flatter yourself," She replied, "If you think my lecturing you implies I want anything to do with you, then you truly are deranged."

"Am I?" He asked, standing so close that she could scarcely breath, "You lecture your friends." He commented.

"You are not my friend." She spat.

He laughed that genuine laugh that always made her feel ill at ease and said in a deep, haggard voice, "Oh, I hope not,"

She let out a shaky breath and took a step back, which she regretted immediately after. His eyes flashed when she backed away, his pupils dilating and his mouth parting as he observed what he clearly believed to be a surrender. Immediately, his palms were pressed against her cheeks, his fingers threading through her hair as his lips met hers.

As always, there was a moment where she drowned in his touch. Her skin thrummed beneath his palms and she took a deep, instinctual breath through her nose. His scent overwhelmed her, the feel of his hands and his lips and his body against hers—she could even feel his hair against her forehead where strands and escaped his usually perfect coil. He stomach felt so twisted she could hardly stand it.

"When will you see," He breathed against her lips, "That you are already _mine_?"

The phrase felt like a bucket of ice water being poured over her. She pushed him away, but unlike the last time she refused him, he wasn't angry or resigned. Instead he laughed loudly. The sound filled the classroom, echoing off the stone walls. He looked at her like this was a game, but more than that like he already knew the outcome. He looked at her like he knew she would be back.

She hated how she was always the one to flee.

—

Timing was everything the day they acted out their plan.

If the Basilisk was killed too soon, they risked Tom Riddle finding out. If it wasn't killed by the time the Aurors arrived, it was unlikely they would be allowed to even attempt to go down there in the first place. Once the Aurors arrived, Hermione would have to—somehow—dose Riddle without him knowing so he would be forced to tell the truth when questioned about the acromantula.

Dumbledore was supposed to go down into the actual chamber and kill the basilisk—he wasn't going to allow his students to go down and kill it on their own. But when the day arrived that Harry received a reply from his father—a curt message informing him that he would drop by with Sirius Black to see what proof he had that someone had let loose a Basilisk—Dumbledore was called away.

They weren't supposed to go through with the plan. He had told them to wait, that their lives were worth more than justice upon Riddle. They agreed.

But they didn't, really.

It was terribly foolish and stupid and Hermione tried—really, she did—to convince them that this was terrible and moronic. She tried to tell them that they'll go down there and they'll die. She tried to tell them it wasn't worth it.

The vial of Veritaserum lied in her pocket, reminding her of the role she would play, too.

"Mione," Harry beseeched, "If my dad arrives and we have nothing he won't come back. I barely managed to convince him to check this out as it is. We can't lose our chance—"

"But you'll lose your life," She stressed, "All it has to do is look at you, and you're dead!"

"We have that sorted," Harry rebutted, and she laughed outright.

"Oh, I doubt that," She replied.

Ron, while he his anger had cooled considerably over the last week, was becoming quite riled at her insistence they give up. "So we should just let your boyfriend carry on building an army to rid the world of muggleborns then?"

"First of all," Hermione snarled, "He will not raise an army and overthrow the ministry in school year, Ronald, that takes decades. We have _time_ ," Then, petulantly, she added, "Second of all, he is not my _boyfriend,_ "

"I can't have him around here anymore!" Harry snapped, "Ginny's having nightmares about him and she doesn't even know why, if he did something—"

Hermione kept silent about what he had done to Ginny—the Imperius curse was horrible to experience, even if you didn't entirely remember it.

"He's a monster," Ron reminded her, "You know he needs to go as soon as possible. This is our best chance."

"It's late." She begged, "Let's just wait the night—"

"My dad will be here before the nights over," Harry reminded her, "Dumbledore or no Dumbledore. And the Basilisk is going to be dead when he gets here." He turned to the sink and hissed the words he had heard in her memory, but nothing happened.

"See?" Hermione said, "Nothing. Let's go to bed and—"

When he said it again, it opened. "Harry, Ron—" She pulled out her wand, ready to stun them and force them back to bed, but before she could completely raise her wand, something swept past her arm, its claws dragging across her arm and drawing blood—it was Dumbledore's phoenix, she realized—and the three of them were gone. "Bloody fucking hell!" She couldn't help but swear, "You brought the _phoenix_?" She called down the entrance.

Her arm was dripping blood, streaming out from the scratches and dripping onto the floor. Bloody Phoenix. They were fiercely loyal creatures—it was likely Harry, in all his time in Dumbledore's office, had befriended it and now the blasted bird felt protective.

She was going to heal it, but she paused, glancing at the open sink. She took three quick, deep breaths before pulling the sleeve of her robes over her bleeding arm and hurrying down the hall.

She needed to provide a distraction, so a distraction she would provide.

The corridor was deserted, as it was past curfew, and she was thankful for the head girl badge on her chest that she didn't have to worry about running into any bossy students to tell her to get back to bed. She supposed she could just hold up her bloody arm and that would be it, but then they would usher her to the hospital wing, and that's not what she wanted.

She knew how to heal it—she's been entertaining the idea of becoming a healer for years, after all, so she had done plenty of research—she just didn't want to heal it yet.

When she reached his office—because she had no idea where his room was and even if she did she wasn't sure she would be able to just go knock on his door—she knocked loudly with her good hand.

Nothing happened.

She tried the doorknob and rattled it loudly—probably louder than necessary but she was frustrated and bleeding. She tried spells, but his wards were absurdly complicated at night, completely different than the simple alarm wards that alerted him to her presence that he had up during the day. She rattled the doorknob again, on the off chance that any of her unlocking or unwarding charms had worked, but nothing.

In her anger, she kicked the door as hard as she could.

It opened, Professor Riddle raising a single, disapproving brow. When he noticed it was her, his other eyebrow rose to join the first. He stared at her bemusedly.

"Why didn't you answer when I knocked?" She demanded, feeling only slightly embarrassed but mostly irritated.

"I was planning on ignoring it," He admitted plainly, "Until you kicked my door that is."

She glared at him. His lips twitched but he didn't smile.

"I need your help," She said, and she had underestimated just how embarrassing it was to ask for his help. She didn't want his help. She didn't want anything to do with him—anything. She meant that. And she didn't like admitting that she couldn't do something on her own—especially when she could but she had to act like she couldn't.

He seemed unbelieving. "Do you?" He indulged.

She opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. She closed her mouth again and watched the way his head tilted almost imperceptibly to the side as he waited for her answer. Sighing, she pulled her sleeve up from her bloody arm and held it out between them. He looked down at the offered limb and froze.

The entire atmosphere changed. Whereas before it had been a bit tense, but mostly lighthearted considering their usual dynamic, now the air felt charged. His brows puckered and he inhaled sharply, his hands immediately grabbing her arm, careful to avoid the wounds. He pulled her arm up to examine it, his eyes flicking wildly across the torn flesh. He swallowed.

"It was Dumbledore's Phoenix," She told him, truthfully, "I may have gotten in an altercation with someone it liked."

"Who?" He demanded lowly.

"I'm not telling you," She responded quietly, "You'll try to torture them for me, or something equally ridiculous,"

He ignored her comment, instead tracing a finger lightly over on of the scratches. She hissed, but otherwise let him. His touch wasn't cruel—perhaps exploratory, as if he hadn't seen such a wound before and was allowing a moment of observation. "The only person I can think of who would befriend that blasted bird other than Dumbledore himself would be Potter," He replied, then met her eyes. "Am I right?"

"No," She lied, knowing he wouldn't believe her—because obviously he was right—but saying it anyway. "I don't know how to heal it," She changed the subject, and he eyed her skeptically.

"Yes you do," He challenged.

"Not phoenix scratches," She lied, "Are you going to help or am I going to bleed out in your office doorway?" The mental image seemed to work in her favor, as he immediately pulled her in and shut the door behind her. Not exactly gently, he sat her in his chair at his desk and turned to pull open his drawer and draw out a bandage and a bottle.

"Phoenixes aren't violent." He pointed out.

"Normally." She countered, "But they can be quite protective."

He was silent and angry and sullen while he bandaged her arm, dipping the bandage into the salve before applying it. She found it a bit strange, the way his expression rested now. She hadn't realized it before now, but his face was never completely blank when she was with him. There would always be something—not enough to read anything, mind you, but enough to see some expression. A raised eyebrow, a clenched jaw, narrowed eyes or twitching lips. There was always something there, something happening, something she could focus on and observe.

But now his face was stone. She watched his long fingers make work of the bandage in silence. He would be done soon. What would she do to distract him then, if he wasn't speaking to her?

"Are you angry?" She asked outright. His dark eyes snapped up to meet hers, cold and cutting. She frowned when he didn't answer, only turned his attention back to her arm. When he finished, his fingers lingered briefly at her elbow. She watched the way a few strands of hair fell over his forehead, and because she was curious about what his reaction would be while he was so angry, she lifted her good hand and brushed them back form his forehead. She threaded her fingers in the hair at the side of his head, and was surprised when he leaned into her touch immediately. He let out a heavy sigh.

"How long do I keep the bandage on?" She asked, simply to fill the silence. He looked up at her tiredly from where he was kneeled before her on the floor.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to," He chided. She did know the answer, so she didn't grace him with a reply. His mood was so off that it was hard for her to figure how she was supposed to keep him distracted. But, even if he continued to glare at her from his place at her feet, he didn't seem intent for her to leave. He seemed quite content to let her thread her fingers through his hair in silence.

She didn't think it was that big a deal. She had lost a lot of blood, surely, since she had wanted to leave all the healing to him. But it wasn't as if she were dying. She was lucky that the phoenix hadn't tried to peck her eyes out—

Her hand stopped its movement through his hair when she realized exactly why the phoenix had been there in the first place. Useful to have a bird with the ability to pluck someone's eyes out when facing something with deadly eyes.

When she stopped—and she supposes when he realized she had zoned out and was certainly not focusing on his glower any longer—he sighed and rested his head on her lap, his hands splaying out around her hips. It wasn't sexual—although that was the first place her mind went—it was simply a change in posture. Nevertheless, she found herself suddenly at a loss of what to do, of how to sit, of where to put her hands. She could feel his deep, even breaths exhaling across her bare thigh.

"Why did the Phoenix attack?" He asked, turning his head so his lips were pressing against her thigh. She could feel the movement of his mouth as he spoke. Simply as a way of stopping him from moving any further, she slipped her fingers back into his hair and dragged her nails up from the back of his neck against his scalp. It didn't exactly work in her favor, because his lips parted and he let out a haggard breath that she felt on the inside of her thighs, but he stopped moving at least.

"I had a disagreement with Harry," She said, knowing he was only asking a second time to catch her out on a lie. That was probably why he was being so affectionate in the first place, and that thought helped her to bear with the physical contact without losing her head. "It got a bit violent and Fawkes reacted."

"With Potter?" He breathed disbelievingly.

"Ron was there, too." She added. He hummed against her skin, as if Ron Weasley's present suddenly explained her violent tendencies. They probably did. As much as she loved Ron, he had a way of persistently getting under her skin. It didn't help that she used to be in love with him.

She frowned at that. She hadn't exactly considered that she wasn't in love with him anymore. It was something she always pushed to the back of her mind anyway when she was in love with him, so she hadn't even stopped to think if it had faded. Strange, how you can fall out of love with people like that.

"But you'll leave them alone," She said, "Won't you?" She knew he would. He lifted his head, her fingers slipping away again, and she realized she had been unconsciously scratching his head while he rested. His eyes burned when they met hers.

"I would do anything you wanted me to." He admitted. She rolled her eyes.

"No, you wouldn't." She debated, feeling very tired with this whole situation. She didn't want him to say things like that—not when she wanted to believe him. It didn't matter what he said anyway, he would be arrested by the morning, wouldn't he?

"Tell me what to do," He demanded softly, "What would you have me do?"

"Destroy your horcrux." She flatlined, and he laughed as if she was making a joke. She grit her teeth and said, "Give up your crusade against muggleborns."

"Alright," He agreed quietly. She felt like time stopped.

"What?" She replied foolishly, thinking of nothing else to say but, "You don't mean that."

"I won't give up immortality," He said, his eyes intense and his hands wrapping their long fingers around the skin just above her knee. "I won't give up power. But mudbloods can be spared so long as they prove their worth."

"We shouldn't have to prove our worth," She spat, and his fingers tightened around her legs, his eyes darkening.

"Everyone has to prove their worth," He parried gently, his hands pulling her knees apart while he never took his eyes from hers. She let him.

"I want rights for house elves." She added as somewhat of a test. He raised a single eyebrow, looking somewhat unamused. His hands smoothed up her thighs as he pushed himself up on his knees so that he could meet her eyes on her level.

"House elves?" He echoed in a deadpan. She felt a bit offended by his scrutiny.

"Yes, house elves." She said sternly. "They're practically slaves and we have come too far as a society to perpetuate slave labor—it's horrendous—"

"If you were with me," He interrupted, watching her mouth, "You could do anything you wanted."

"I'm not sure what you mean," She admitted, fearing his answer.

"Rule with me," He offered. "You could be a queen. Anything you want would be law."

His tone was hypnotic, passionate, filled to the brim with an intensity that bordered on hysteria. His voice even wavered at the end, like desperation. She wasn't sure what to say, really. On one hand, it was everything she ever wanted. He was acquiescing to her demands, he was allowing her control, he was changing on her behalf. But on the other hand, she knew him. He was a murderer and a psychopath, and he was manipulative and cruel, and he wanted her—and she was fairly certain he would do anything to have her. She was certain it was a lie, even though she desperately wanted it not to be. She imagined for a moment what it might be like if he was hers, and she liked the image far too much.

He would be gone in the morning. Even if they failed and he wasn't arrested, he would know what she had done—what she had allowed her friends to do as well—and he wouldn't be hers then. And the reckless thought occurred to her that if he's going to be gone, then why can't she have him for one moment? Why can't she just have him _now_ , tomorrow be damned?

"I don't want to rule," She admitted, trying to grab a hold of her thoughts. His hands were under her skirt now, but they only rested at the tops of her thighs and went no further. Really, it was his eyes that unnerved her.

"Alright," He repeated, just as before. His tone soft and assuring and something that could even be mistaken for kind. She sucked in a shaky breath.

"I don't want a war," She said, and while he looked a bit confounded that she even thought to bring that up—he didn't know she spoke to Draco Malfoy, after all—he didn't press.

Instead, he slipped his hands around to her lower back, dragging her forward on the chair until she was pressed against him, her legs on either side of his torso. "Do you want me?" He asked.

That thought occurred to her again. That stubborn, reckless throw-away thought that whispered she could have him now. He could be hers for a moment and—God, if she can't have anything else she wants, can't she at least have him?

Fighting against herself, because this situation felt like it was spiraling wildly out of her control again, she shook her head. He leaned in to press his cheek against hers, speaking parseltongue against her ear. She could just barely recognize it as what he had said in the chamber as he translated, rasping against her ear, "My Queen," Her hands had at some point found his shoulders and she gripped them tightly, her nails digging into the fabric of his robes, "I want _you_ ," He breathed. "Do you want _me_?"

Her hands slid back over his shoulder blades, hoping to hell he would just get on with it so she wouldn't have to admit anything. If she didn't say it, it would be easy to deny later. It would be easy to forget this when he was gone if she didn't have to admit that now, if she didn't have to think about it now.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her knickers and she angled her hips off the chair to allow him to pull them off, so they fell to the floor forgotten. Without the cotton barrier, his fingers ghosted above her, and she remembered how fantastic it had felt when he had touched her before. She whimpered when he pressed a kiss to the corner of her jaw and ran a single finger up her slit.

He pulled away so he could see her, his hand hovering above her again, refusing to touch. His eyes were aglow, intense and burning when he said, "Tell me."

She couldn't. She couldn't say it aloud, but in her mind she knew she did. She wanted him. He had done things that were evil and horrendous and she wanted him despite it all. He was a murderer and a warmonger, sometimes she hated him with all of her heart and all of her soul, but she wanted him. And she wanted his hands and his mouth and his eyes and his words—She was going to betray him and send him to Azkaban and she still wanted him, she—

She pulled him close to kiss him—and she was fairly certain this was the first time she had initiated any contact with him—delighted with the way he responded. He moaned against her mouth, deep and rumbling and needy, as his hands hooked under her knees to pull her to the very edge of the chair, unbuttoning her skirt and pulling it off of her. She keened when he slid a finger in her, but then he stopped.

He placed a hand against her throat, pushing her away while his other hand halted in its ministrations but otherwise stayed put. "No," He growled, and desperately continued, "I want to hear you _say_ it."

She watched him, mildly shocked, and slightly distracted by his fingers which were wrapped delicately around her neck. It might've seemed like a threat if it weren't for his other hand which continued its movement, drawing a single finger in and out and in again. She needed more—more of him—one finger wasn't enough, but he seemed content to let her suffer in her desperation until she said what he wanted.

"Say it," He pressed, his gaze fixed on her mouth as if he wanted to savor the image of it when she did. She let out a shaky breath, moaning in discontent when he removed his finger entirely. She clutched at his arm before he could pull away, and frantically she said it.

"I want you," She admitted, and he let out a half-crazed laugh when she said it. He replaced his hand between her legs, his hand at her throat moving to the one side so he could press his lips to the other, dragging kisses down to the collar of her blouse and back up. His thumb traced sickles around her clit and two fingers curled inside her and she threw her head back to moan.

Thinking it was slightly unfair that she was half naked while he was still fully clothed, she tugged his robes off his shoulders and made quick work of his shirt as well, working down the buttons in the front as he pushed her own robe off her shoulders, opening the top of her blouse so he could latch onto her shoulder. She sighed at the feeling of his tongue against her collarbone and dragged her nails down his bare chest.

He pulled his fingers away, and she groaned in protest, but he picked her up and deposited her on the desk, dropping to his knees once more, pressing open mouth kisses against the inside of her thigh. She moaned his name when his tongue finally met her center, and his fingernails dug into her thighs in response. She knew she should probably be telling him to stop, she should be reminding him of their situation—as she usually did at this time—but she couldn't will herself to voice her concerns when his tongue was pressed against her cunt. It took every ounce of her self control not to grab at his hair and press him closer, instead she gripped the edge of the desk behind her. His teeth ever-so-gently scraped against her clit and her elbows gave way and she was sprawled across the desk.

He moved, began kissing up her stomach as he unbuttoned her top from the bottom up—as he had never finished unbuttoning it before—until she was completely bare before him except for her socks and shoes. When he met her lips again, he drew her up against him, his arms supporting her while she worked at his belt. Their kisses were desperate now, less precise, sloppy, too much tongue and teeth but it still sent her head reeling, still set her on fire and made her feel frantic for more. When she undid his pants, she reached inside and wrapped her fingers tentatively around his length, and he broke away to allow a breathy moan, his hands tensing and twitching once at her back.

She liked him like this, she decided. When he was frenzied and falling apart around her, when he was just as breathless and lost and out of control as she was. She liked him when he looked at her like she was an oasis and he was dying of thirst. She liked the way he shook, sometimes, at her touch. She just liked him this way, when he wanted her and she could admit she wanted him.

She stroked his cock, running her thumb over the tip and adoring the way his head dropped to her shoulder when she did. She, without thinking, turned her head to place a chaste kiss against his neck after his forehead met her shoulder, and he sighed, sending her stomach into knots.

He stopped her not long after she started, but she didn't mourn the loss as he was already tugging his trousers down all the way and pulling her legs around his hips, angling himself into her before sliding in.

He thrust into her twice before she tumbled back across the desk, his chest following hers so that they were still pressed against each other. He was rough and relentless as he thrust into her, his hands bruising her hips and his mouth tearing at her neck, but she loved every sensation. She loved the feeling of him inside of her, she loved the evidence of him he would leave through the bruises on her hipbones. She loved the brief pain soothed by his tongue on her neck, she loved the way one of his hands moved from her hips to make quick work of her clit, his mouth moving down her chest until he was lavishing her nipple.

Her back arched against him, meeting his thrusts with her own, moans and cries and whimpers falling free from her throat. He held his back, for the most part—ever the picture of control, or at least he tried to be—but sometimes if she tensed herself around him or dragged her nails through his scalp, he would moan against her, and it made everything feel so much sweeter. Her orgasm was building in her, starting as a pressure in her abdomen and growing until it reached her fingers and her toes, coiling inside of her until it finally snapped and she felt warm and pleasant and spectacular all over. Her head rushed, a cry spilled from her lips, and she held on until he reached his end as well, and suddenly—without warning—something welled up in her throat and she began to cry.

It bubbled up as a laugh, at first, but very quickly shaped into a grimace as tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks and she was gasping and grasping at Tom and she realized she didn't want him to go. She didn't want him to leave her, she didn't want to be the reason he went to jail, she didn't want to lose him. It was suddenly so obvious now why she lost her adoration for Ron, because it had been entirely directed at her Professor instead, and—

He drew her up against him, sliding out of her but otherwise staying wrapped around her. He didn't say anything or even ask her what was wrong, only soothed his hands up and down her back as his chin rested on her shoulder. He might've stepped away from her if she had let him, but even as she cried she kept her hands firmly around his neck so that he wouldn't step away.

She thinks she might've loved him, and it was so disconcerting because she wanted him gone as well. She couldn't forget everything he had done. She wanted him dead. But she also simply wanted _him_ , and she hated it.

He conjured her a glass of water, stepped away from her as she drank it to try and calm her ragged sobs. He pulled his pants back up first before dressing her, starting with her shirt and slowly buttoning it as she drank. He met her eyes, unreadable but not blank, and brushed her tears off her cheeks. He pulled her off the desk to put her skirt on as well, leaving her underwear forgotten on the floor.

"Are you afraid?" He finally asked her as he wrapped her robes around her shoulders.

"Yes," She admitted, gripping her glass of water and thinking of all that was to come in the night.

"You don't have to fear me," He assured her, looking something close to contrite, and she knew that she did. She knew that after everything she had done, and after what she had to do, she certainly did have to fear him.

"I do," She assured him, trying to let it come across as an apology, trying to find a way to let him know that this was only what she had to do. It wasn't what she wanted to do. And she hadn't lied when she said she wanted him, but he was a beast and she couldn't allow herself to be convinced that he would somehow become her prince.

Or, her king, if he had any say.

He looked at her strangely, and there was suddenly a polite knock at the door. He turned, shocked because it was rather late and no one should be knocking, before pulling his shirt on and making his way toward the door. She knew who it was before she heard their voices, and she took out her pocketed veritaserum and poured it in into her glass, pulling her underwear back on so it wouldn't be thrown on the ground in case they saw. Riddle only cracked the door open to speak to them, so it wasn't as if they _could_ see, but she felt better with them on anyway.

"Hello Mr. Riddle," She heard Harry's father speak, "Sorry to bother you so late. We actually have a few questions regarding an investigation here. Nothing serious, just need to fact check a couple things."

They would ask him about the acromantula, about why he had thought it was that, about if he knew there was a basilisk that was actually causing the damage. It was all very routine. Or it would be at first, until Tom starts spilling the truth.

"I'll be right with you," Tom said, "Give me a moment."

When he turned to face her she could have sworn he knew something was up, but she clenched her jaw and appeared nonplussed anyway. "Are you leaving?" She asked.

"Yes," He said, approaching her at his desk, "Would you wait here?"

"Yes," She agreed. Ignoring the clenching of her heart, she offered him the glass. "Do you want some?"

He shook his head, so she downed the rest of it—aware of the effects but knowing he wouldn't be around long enough to take advantage of it—before pulling him back in for an open mouth kiss, the veritaserum lingering on her tongue against his.

When she pulled away he asked her, "Will you change your mind?" And before she could ask what he meant, clarified, "About wanting me?"

"I think I'm in love with you," She admitted solemnly. His jaw clenched, and she couldn't tell if he was happy to hear the confession or not. But he nodded, turned to the door and left with the Aurors.

She did stay in his office for a time, leaning against his desk and trying to sort out her emotions. She rubbed at her eyes, which felt sore and were probably bloodshot from her brief breakdown, and wiped at her face to make sure all tear tracks were gone. Idly, she glanced around the room, ready to leave when she spotted it on the desk.

His diary sat at the corner of his desk. Many of his things were strewn about, upset during their tryst when they were too occupied to notice, but it sat undisturbed in the far corner. Tentatively, she picked it up, flipped through the blank pages. She could feel him in that book, and anyone who knew what a horcrux was would find this and would know what he had done. She should leave it there for them to find, as more proof.

Instead, she hesitated.

When she saw him again, she stood with Harry and Ron, watching him be catered away by the Aurors, and when he met her eyes, he looked at her for the first time with murderous intent. "We did it, 'Mione," Ron smiled beside her, and she couldn't reply.

All she could think of was the weight of his horcrux in her bag.

—

For the second time in her life, Hermione was living Post-Riddle. She was working out her life now that she wasn't centered—obsessed, if she were honest—on that man. And it wasn't horrible at all, in fact, it was lovely.

Harry married Ginny right after they graduated—much like his parents had, only he had to wait for her to be graduated as well. Ron wasn't married but him and Lavender seemed to continue to hit it off. Hermione bought a flat in London with Crookshanks and pursued becoming a healer. And there was nothing left to research about Riddle, there was nothing left to find out, there was nothing left to solve, so moving on now was easier in that respect. She didn't spend her time in the library trying to discover if she was right about him because she knew him.

Instead she spent her time trying to forget exactly how _well_ she knew him.

He had gone to Azkaban, in the end. The basilisk was dead, the Chamber was closed, a new Defense teacher was found—even though they only lasted until the end of the year and then they were replaced. Whoever his followers were—if he had any, though she was sure he did—they never came out of the woodwork to support him.

Post-Riddle era was calm. It was time to focus on herself, to focus on her career, to focus on her friends. To ignore the dreams she had at night, to ignore the ache she felt when she heard his name, to ignore the memories. She was stupid for falling for him. She was even stupider for believing she could change him.

It didn't matter, anyway, he was gone, and she was moving on.

It had been two years now, Harry and Ginny had a lovely wedding ceremony and were set to return from their honeymoon in a week. She was so happy for them, so grateful that they had each other. They couldn't decide on a set location for their honeymoon, so they essentially decided to just tour Europe, so it was even possible they might not come back for an extra week if they're having too much fun.

That's why it was such a surprise when Harry came tumbling through her fireplace early one morning, only a week after they had left.

"Harry?" She gaped, "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be on honeymoon?"

"Yeah," He agreed breathlessly, "Well, we cut it short, Ginny is back at her family's house for right now, and I…I needed to tell you—"

"Are you alright?" She didn't mean to interrupt, really she should've waited for him to finish, but she was so surprised and confused that all she was focusing on was the panic in his eyes and the shaking of his hands.

"Not really," He admitted, "Hermione, I—"

"Sit down," She ushered, brushing the soot off of him from the fireplace and guiding him to the couch.

"Hermione," He said sternly, "Listen to me. Have you read the paper?"

She shook her head, "No, not yet."

He sighed, his breath shaking as he inhaled after, and met her eyes. He pulled it out from where it was tucked under his arm—she hadn't noticed it—and gave it to her. "It's…just read it."

She eyed him oddly, concerned and a bit scared if she was honest. She pulled the paper form his hand and unfolded it to view the front page.

Tom Riddle's sullen face stared back at her, and the words "Prisoner Escaped from Azkaban" were printed on the page.

She couldn't breathe.

—

 **ayyyyyyyy**

 **so um? ? 100 reviews ? ? WTF GUYS THAT IS SO COOL i mean its only three chapters I'm amazed at the support like I know I keep saying it BUT I MEAN IT OK like thanks i really appreciate you guys!**

 **This is NOT the last chapter like I said it would be. I sort of changed my mind a little bit, drew this part out and now I have the next chapter. idk we'll see if I change my mind again, idk, but in the end this will be less than 10 chapters at least, probably less than 8. I know you guys want it to be longer! and that is so so so nice but if I tried to drag it out too long it'll just turn into shit, with the way I set it up and everything, so unfortunately this will be pretty short.**

 **BUT REST ASSURED at least this isn't the last chapter. I would say next chapter will be the last one but that's what I said about this and now look at it, so….next chapter might be the last one? I haven't written it yet so I'm not entirely sure.**

 **It might take a bit longer to get the next chapter out because it's not written, the other chapters were always either done or nearly done when I would post one but this one is entirely….like not even started its all just in my mind so DEPENDING ON THE TIME I HAVE I might be able to get it out quickly but we'll see. The weekends here, so I'm hopeful.**

 **ANYWAY that's all my news. I do post on tumblr sometimes with updates about whats happening if I don't get a chapter out so like, if you're ever curious you can check there and I might have posted something, my username is me-ow-mers. It's a god way to keep you guys updated!**

 **THIS IS A LONG AUTHORS NOTE so I'm going to go now I love you all so much and I'm so so s os os os os os os sos os o thankFUL i can't even tell you like 100 reviews JEEZ**

 **(bye i love you next chapter coming soon)**

 **(feel free to alert me to strange typos thx ilu bye)**


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing the two of them did once she knew was flee her little London flat to where he had come from. They stumbled into a house Hermione didn't recognize—not only were the Weasleys there, but Harry's mother and father, along with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew, even Lavender sat beside Ron, and Ginny awaited Harry's return—they all turned to them when they entered.

"Good," James spoke as Lily stood to usher the two of them to sit around the table, "You got her. We need to talk about what we're going to do."

"What we're going to do?" Hermione echoed. "What can we possibly do? He's escaped and we don't know where he is—"

"What we're going to do," Remus interjected calmingly, "Is make sure all of you are safe. It is likely he will come after you three, since you got him thrown in Azkaban in the first place."

"How did he escape?" Hermione asked, and judging by the faces around the table—mildly uninterested but still mostly terrified—they must've already briefed everyone else.

"Got on the good side of the dementors," Sirius intoned, "Convinced them to let him escape."

"Convinced the dementors?" Hermione echoed unbelievingly.

"They're of the same kind," James said, "They both wallow in death and decay, they enjoy it. I think he compelled them to join his cause, whatever it is—"

"World domination of some kind," Hermione answered vaguely, "Does anyone know where he's gone? How long as it been since he escaped?"

"That's the thing," Remus said, hesitantly, "We aren't entirely certain. The dementors just…let him go. It wasn't until someone outside realized he was gone that…he could have been out a day or weeks."

Hermione rubbed her hands tiredly over her face, "So he could already know where all of us are."

"It's likely," Lupin confirmed.

"Are we being relocated?" She asked, glancing around the room. Harry had sat by Ginny, his arm wrapped around her, and Ron sat with Lavender. The rest of the Weasley bunch was dispersed around the room, each focused on the Marauders at the table. It wasn't fair that they all had to get wrapped up in this mess—they had nothing to do with any of it. Truly, it was unfair that even Ron or Harry had to get wrapped up in this.

It should just be _her_.

To be honest, it probably _was_ just her. Harry and Ron had killed the basilisk, of course, but Hermione remained the betrayer.

"We'll have to get you all somewhere safe," James said, "At least for a little while, until he's found or at least until we figure out if he's harboring a grudge." Hermione had to hold back a snort. Of course he was. "We're thinking of getting you guys out of the country for a little while."

"Out of the country?" Hermione gaped, "But…my job, my everything is here in London—"

"It's only for a little while, Miss Granger," Remus assuaged. He had never gotten rid of his habit of addressing her as her professor, even with how often she saw him because of Harry. "The ministry is working tirelessly to bring him back in—"

"So he can escape again?" She snapped, "This is more than an escape. This is the beginning of a war—a war he's been planning for—for years—"

"'Mione," Harry intoned, reaching across the table to grab her hand and squeeze it. "We'll catch him."

"And what?"

"Kill him?" Ron suggested. The silence that followed suggested they were more than willing to consider that option. But she remembers the diary that sat hidden away in her flat and she felt cold.

"You…" She began, "You can't kill him."

"Why the hell not?" Ron snapped, "Look, I know you went through a lot of shit with him, okay, and you turned him in, in the end, and that's great, but—why the hell are you always defending him?"

"I'm not defending him, I'm—"

"Listen," Sirius interrupted before she could explain, "The priority right now is getting all of you safe. We'll deal with Riddle."

"You don't understand," She sighed, "He cannot be killed."

It was dreadfully quiet for a while. Lily was the first to speak, "How can he not be killed?" She asked, "Everyone can be killed."

"No," Hermione disagreed, "He…" She hesitated, unsure how she could explain it. How could she communicate the reasons he had kept it a secret all this time? Why had she kept that diary to herself instead of offering it as evidence? Wouldn't they assume that meant she was protecting him?

But if she didn't tell them, they would assume she was protecting him as well.

"He has a horcrux." She finally admitted. Judging by the looks on their faces, no one really knew what that was, so she continued, "It's…it splits your soul so you can become immortal."

The room erupted, people asking how this could be so, others saying it couldn't be so. Ron's face went bright red and Lavender uselessly tried to calm him down as he exploded at Hermione from across the table. Harry glanced between Hermione and his father as if he wasn't sure how to proceed.

The Marauders remained passively calm, watching her carefully where she sat as if she was to be suspected of some sort of crime.

"He'll come for me, first," She said, "He'll come for me and kill me and retrieve his horcrux—you all should worry about yourselves, because he's not going to—"

"Alright," James finally interrupted, "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. This horcrux, where is it?"

She hesitated, "In my flat."

Sirius rubbed at his temples and Ron hissed "You're fucking joking, right?" Lavender laid a comforting hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off, "You're having a laugh?"

"I thought he was imprisoned for life!" She snapped, "I didn't think it was necessary—"

"Imprisoned for life but he would live forever!" He countered.

"Yes!" She agreed, "Live forever in Azkaban. I didn't think it was—"

"Alright!" Sirius shouted, "For fucks sake, nothing's going to get done if we're fighting. We need to get the horcrux and destroy it, so he doesn't have an upper hand. Do you know how to destroy it?"

"Fiendfire," She offered, "Or I believe the venom of a basilisk could destroy it, so if we could get a tooth from the chamber its possible we could—"

"So why didn't you destroy it before?" Harry cut in, not exactly sounding angry but definitely sounding withdrawn. She didn't have an answer for that.

"We need to get the horcrux," Remus said, "Bring it here where its safe."

"Alright," Hermione agreed, moving to her feet, "I'll—"

"No," James cut in, "Not alone." She grit her teeth, eyeing the way his jaw twitched and his back tensed and his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. Sirius was the same, and Remus—even with his gentle gaze—still looked as if he were waiting for her to defect. Of course they wouldn't trust her. She didn't really have a right to be surprised, considering she had kept the secret in the first place.

Would she have ever told them, she wondered? If Tom Riddle never escaped?

She didn't know for sure.

"Wormtail," James said, and Peter—who had been sitting at the side, withdrawn from the conversation, looking afraid—snapped to attention. "Can you go with her?"

She felt mildly offended to be given an escort, but she understood the reasoning behind it. Peter stood, flinching slightly at the sound of the legs of the chair scraping against the floor, and she couldn't help but think—quite cruelly, perhaps—that if they were hoping to send someone to keep her from defection, Peter Pettigrew might not be the smartest choice. He was too jumpy, too easily frightened. She felt like he could be easily intimidated.

It wasn't as if she were planning on intimidating him, it was only an observation.

Nevertheless, the small man accompanied her to the fireplace and to her apartment, his wand clutched in his fist and his lower lip trembling. It was subtle—subtle enough that his friends didn't notice—but Hermione had become quite adept at picking up on subtleties.

Tom Riddle had cultivated that talent in her.

She felt similar to the way she had felt when she first discovered he was their professor in her final year at Hogwarts. She dreaded it, but some small part of her was thrilled, filled to the brim with excitement. It was easily dismissed as fear, now, given the fact that he would surely want to kill her. But even so, her hands shook and her breath was shallow and she felt like she was remembering everything at once.

The first thing she did in her apartment was retrieve the horcrux hidden in her room and deposit it on the kitchen counter. Pettigrew had remained at the fireplace, eagerly awaiting her to finish. "Here it is," She said, "I'm leaving it here while I gather some of my things. I assume we'll be relocating immediately." He didn't reply, just glanced between her and the horcrux nervously. She huffed, "This way you know I'm not going to take off with it."

He nodded stiffly, and she returned to her room to gather what she wanted. She didn't need much—she needed her wand of course, and perhaps some clothes—but she wanted a moment of solitude before the never-ending scrutiny that would await her with the others.

She knew why they eyed her the way they did. She had hidden Riddle's horcurx after all—something that could have proven Riddle's guilt without a single doubt. Even with his confession—prompted by the secret dosing of veritaserum—it was extraordinarily difficult to actually get him sentenced. It was only by James Potter's status as an Auror and the corrupt legal system of the ministry that he managed to be put away at all.

She had known, through all of it, that if it was decided he should be let free, she would need to turn the horcrux in. But she just…she wanted to wait until she needed to. Until it was necessary. And when it wasn't, she tucked the horcrux away and never mentioned it to anyone.

It was psychotic, probably. She was losing her mind a bit ever since she laid her eyes on Tom Riddle in that library when she was a child. First she fell prey to obsession, pouring over texts to discover his identity, to discover if he was truly as horrid as she suspected. And then when he was, then began the cognitive dissonance—trying to reason why through everything he had done she was still willingly placing herself in his presence. Why after everything she knew she was still keeping secrets.

Then of course, came the sexual deviancy, but she had shoved every thought of his touch from her mind the day he was sentenced to life. It would be fitting to think of it now that he was free, but also damning. If there was going to be a war, the only side she could survive on would be the Riddle's opposition.

She sat heavily on her bed, heaving a sigh. She had slowly packed clothes and books into her little beaded bag until she could think of nothing else to throw in. She dropped her head in her hands, massaging her temples and trying to remind herself of her morality. She had done the right thing in the end. She had done what was right.

So why did the decision haunt her for so long?

Muffled sounds came from her living room—nothing alarming, mind you, but confusing nonetheless. Voices. Her first assumption was that someone had come from the safe house—to tell them to hurry up, perhaps? To discover what was taking so long? To see if Hermione had gone dark-side and run off with the horcrux?

She blinked back tears—because she hadn't cried over this yet and she wasn't going to now—and stood. It didn't matter what happened, or could have happened, or would happen. She picked up her wand from her desk, held her beaded purse in her hand, and knew that the only thing that mattered was what was happening now.

It was that kind of thought that kept her sane these past years.

"Rest assured," She said as she entered the room, keen on remaining as sarcastic as possible throughout this whole ordeal because it was the only way she could cope, "I haven't defected."

But Peter was gone.

Fear was not the first thing she felt, but annoyance. A bit of confusion, as well, but mostly irritation. Had he left? She saw the horcux still sitting on the kitchen table where she had placed it, so it was obvious he hadn't taken it back to the group. So where had he gone?

She stepped forward into the room, confused. Dropping her beaded bag on the couch as she passed it, she began toward the diary.

"I disagree," A voice finally rasped from somewhere behind her. She froze so suddenly and so violently that it left her muscles aching against the effort, and she slowly turned her head to what she already knew was awaiting her. It took her half a moment to realize that he was responding to what she had said, and it sent a pang to her heart. Briefly, uselessly, she was angry, because she didn't need to feel guilty for what he had brought upon himself.

Hermione knew the years had not been kind to Tom Riddle—really, she had assured that—but she hadn't quite expected this. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes surrounded by deep shadows. He was thin—and he had always been thin, but never like this. Never like this, where she could see the dips of his ribcage on his chest where his shirt was open, or where his cheekbones seemed to strain agains this skin. He was still beautiful—she was certain he could never be anything else—but now it was haunting.

It was probably fitting that he meant to kill her while he looked like death himself. And she was sure he meant to kill her, if the way his eyes burned so desperately was any indication.

"Hello, Tom," She breathed, the calm before the storm.

"Hello, Hermione," He replied.

She glanced subtly around them and asked, "Where's Peter?"

"Gone," He answered vaguely. His posture hadn't changed, leaned against her wall as if he belonged there, his wand held loosely in his fingers and his eyes burning, always burning, setting like fire upon her skin. She clenched her jaw.

"Why?" She asked.

"Because I asked him to."

"Asked?" She echoed disbelievingly. A knowing smile curled around his lips, dark and familiar, and there was something nostalgic about that moment. She felt, for a moment, seventeen again, locked under his gaze in his office. But before, it had always been a question of why he hadn't killed her. She was sure he was going to remedy that now.

She adjusted her wand in her grip and he noticed. "Is he dead?" She asked.

He pushed himself off the wall, bringing himself to his full height and twirling his wand through his fingers. She loathed his nonchalance. "Defected," He mocked, echoing her words from before.

She frowned, considering his words. She sighed heavily, "Of course," She scoffed, thinking back on the terror that had taken over the man moments earlier with the others. Why would he be so terrified if he didn't have something to do with it? "And I suppose you're here for your revenge?"

His wand halted its languid movement about his knuckles. His jaw twitched. "I was going to have him kill you," He admitted, and she felt something like hope flutter in her chest before it was halted by the way his eyes met hers and all she saw was hatred. "But I thought…Why should he have the honor?" He drawled, stepping closer and smiling cruelly when she took half a step back and raised her wand. "Shouldn't I be the one to kill the woman who betrayed me?" He asked.

"Then what are you waiting for?" She prompted, ignoring the pain in her gut. He glowered, and flicked his wrist so quickly it was all she could do to throw herself haphazardly behind the couch as his curse wordlessly spilled from his wand. She was a bit thrown off to see he went straight for the killing curse—she had expected some sort of torture for retribution first. He advanced on her quickly, his deteriorated appearance having no effect on his speed as he was on her in moments firing another curse. She rolled out of the way and fired back with avis—mostly to piss him off.

It worked.

He let out something close to a roar as he swept the birds away—not after a few good pecks, of course—and fired an angry red curse at her. It barely missed, singeing the ends of her wild hair. She was throwing the darkest curses she could think of, trying to even the playing field, but she didn't have the practice he had. Or the viciousness, to be fair. Every curse he fired was fueled with every ounce of hatred and anger and betrayal. It wasn't long before he hit her with one.

The cruciatus curse was exceptional in the way it hurt more every time it was cast. Each time seemed worse than the last, though she wasn't sure if that was something psychological or something to do with the magic itself. It had been so long since she had been under it—by his own wand—and it wasn't necessarily anything she had been wanting to do again. She writhed under its effects, clutching at her wand. She was aware of herself enough to feel his foot settle on her wrist, crushing it until her fingers relinquished the wood and allowed it to roll away from her. Only then did he lift the curse.

"I would have given you everything," He sneered down at her as she tried to catch her breath. He kneeled beside her, and when she turned her head to see where her wand had rolled away to, his hand wrapped around her neck and forced her against the floor. "I would have given you anything you wanted." He snarled.

"No you wouldn't have," She choked against his grip, "It was always about what you wanted, never about what I—"

"You wanted _me_!" He snapped, uncharacteristically furious—freely so. Something had come undone in him in his time spent in Azkaban, she could see. He was half-crazed now, easily angered and no longer able to contain or control it. He snarled and spat and snapped without restraint.

She took the advantage that his anger offered her and pushed against his hold, punching him in the face.

He reared back, his hand falling from his throat as it cupped around his nose. He sprung to his feet—instead of sprawling to the floor like she had hoped—but at least he was away from her. "I'm not enough of a monster to _torture_ someone," She snapped, "But I hope that hurt like hell!"

He laughed. But it wasn't that strangely endearing, strangely natural laugh she would hear sometimes before. This was the crazed, high-pitched, chilling laughter, and it bubbled up in his throat and filled the room with reckless abandon. He clutched at his nose, let the blood seep through his fingers, and he laughed. For some reason, this unnerved her more than anything that had happened thus far. Everything else she had seen coming—he would be angry, he would try to kill her. But to laugh?

He really had snapped, she realized, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She had sent him to the end of his sanity.

He hadn't stopped laughing when he put her under his curse again, and the seemingly endless pain and the echo of her screams were accompanied by his chilling laughter. He held it for so long that when he did finally lifted it, her cheeks were drenched with tears and she turned on her side to dry heave—thankful, at least, that she hadn't eaten enough that day to puke. "You should remember," She rasped, interrupted by a sob but continuing unaffected, "That torturing me gets you nowhere."

His feet were by her now, finally approaching her again instead of cursing her from across the room. He said lowly, "I hardly remember you now," His wand raised, she turned her head to see her wand barely two paces away. But her whole body ached, her limbs felt like jelly. She wasn't resigned to death, but she wasn't sure what she could do at this point other than meet his gaze and hope to convey she wasn't afraid. When he spoke again, his voice shook with rage. "That is the _first_ thing they took away from me."

He stood above her, wand poised to kill, but he hesitated. He looked so ferocious, so filled with endless rage that it chilled her, terrified her, made her feel how Malfoy must've felt under his wand before. But he hesitated. She reached, quick as a flash despite the groans of her body, to grab the hilt of his wand. Shocked, but not shocked enough to relinquish it, he pulled back and she thrust her foot forward—hard—into his knee cap and he inadvertently let go.

He crumpled, his legs giving out beneath him, and he fell across her legs. She kicked out from underneath him as he rolled on his back and reached for her. She barely managed to wrap her fingers around her own wand and toss his across the room before he wrapped his fingers around her ankle and dragged her back. She turned in his hold, throwing the stinging hex. He had to roll out of the way as he didn't have a wand to shield himself with, releasing her ankle. She stumbled to her feet and he followed suit.

"I had no choice," She told him, unsure why she felt the need to justify herself to his current state, but continuing anyway. She ran toward his wand and picked it up before he could get it, turning and raising her own to stop his advancements on her. His eyes went from her to her wand to his own, assessing the situation. "You tried to kill me. I had every right to have you put away!"

"Is that what this was?" He murmured, his head tilting to the side as he watched her with predatory eyes. "Retribution for what I did to you when you were _twelve_?" She didn't answer, and found that she couldn't answer when a slow smile spread across his lips. "What about what I did when you were seventeen?" She tried to hide the start that her body gave when he brought it up, but she flinched before she could stop herself. He had a nasty grin now. "I have to admit, you were very believable when my tongue was in your—"

She couldn't let him finish, her heart beating wildly out of her chest, so she cast a body binding charm. He ducked under it and she didn't have enough time to react when he immediately charged her. They both flew to the ground, the back of her head colliding harshly with the kitchen counter on the way down. The room was suddenly hazy, and for a moment, it was all dark. Only a moment, and then she could see the blur above her.

When her vision began to clear, the first thing she did was turn her head dizzily to the side and grasp her wand. She forced herself up on her elbows, squinting her eyes against the suddenly blinding eyes of the room and training her wand on him.

But he had frozen, standing with his hands resting on her kitchen counter, trailing over the surface. And though she couldn't see it from her place on the floor, she remembered what lay there before him. She watched as he sucked in a shuddering breath, shaky, almost like a sob, and he looked so furiously confused, like something was going on that he didn't understand and it angered him.

She had been here too long, she knew. She wasn't sure if Peter returned to the group, but it would be better for her if he hadn't—at least he wouldn't be there to contest against her. This was the first moment since Tom had arrived that his eyes were not totally and completely settled on her, so she pushed herself to her feet as quietly as she could.

She couldn't help but wonder at the way he hunched over that diary as if it was his salvation. As if it was the answer to all his unanswered questions or problems. It seemed like more than simply a reuniting with ones soul. It seemed like more than the joy of seeing your creation is safe. It was like…something had shifted in his countenance. Something had changed suddenly, without warning, and without her knowledge.

Let him have the damn thing for now, she thought. It had only been about ten seconds that they had stopped fighting, but she knew she wouldn't have another chance to get away. She stumbled a bit, and praying that her dizzied state didn't cause her to splinch, she disapparated.

She felt a bit like a coward, if she were honest, but she had a history of fleeing the scene where Tom Riddle was concerned. She was just keeping up the tradition, she supposed.

Apparating into the room where they had all met before caused such an uproar she was almost frightened. Peter hadn't returned, apparently, and she hadn't realized she was bleeding until Molly Weasley started fussing around the back of her head.

"Peter," Hermione tried to explain, "Tom," But everyone was rushing around her too quickly for her to make sense of the situation.

"Did you get the horcrux?" Ron asked.

"What happened to Wormtail?" Sirius demanded.

"What took so long?" James asked.

"What happened to your head?" Molly shrieked.

"It was Tom!" She finally bellowed, her head swimming, "He was already at my flat. Peter is with him. We fought, and I…" She paused, finally realizing what a stupid idea it was to leave the horcrux in his hands as they had no upper hand now. "He has his horcrux."

"Shit," James swore, turning away from her and pacing the room as he thought.

"Wormtail _isn't_ with him," Sirius defended.

"Well he certainly didn't seem to have a problem leaving me there to die," She snapped. She thanked Molly curtly but kindly while she ushered her away, healing her own head so she could see straight again.

"What happened?" Harry asked, the first to sound actually concerned besides Molly.

"Tom Riddle knew where to find me," She explained, "If he knows where I am, it's not long before he finds us. We have to relocate." They stared at her strangely. " _Now_."

James sighed through his nose. "Shit," He swore again, "Fine. Fine. Everyone get around the portkey, we'll sort this out somewhere else."

Hermione hesitated as everyone followed James to the portkey, gathering around it tightly. The haze was gone and she could think clearly now, her fight or flight instinct fading away. How many times had she run from Tom Riddle, only to be inevitably pulled back into his life? It was like every time she got away something would pull her back in. She was sick of the endless give and take, of the constant running toward and running away. If there was going to be a war, she was not going to be at the center of it. She needed to end this before it started.

"I'm not going." She said.

"What?" Ron squawked, "What do you bloody well mean you're not—"

"I'm the one he wants," She said, "I'm the one who betrayed him."

"We all betrayed him," Harry countered, and she shook her head.

"No," She said, "No, I'm the one he wants. He's made it perfectly clear that this is personal. I'm not dragging this out—"

"Don't, Mione, we're not going to let you be the martyr!" Harry snapped. He reached for her wrist, pulling her toward them and staring at her beseechingly. "Please, Mione."

She felt torn. She knew what they were thinking—that either this was genuine and stupid, or that this was a ruse to join the other side. They were her friends, and they wouldn't outright distrust her, but they were obviously skeptical. Who wouldn't be, after everything?

She was not the same righteous little girl she was before Tom Riddle came into her life, who did everything by the book, by logic, and by what was good and right. It wasn't to say that she was like Riddle, either. She wasn't evil. But she wasn't entirely good either.

She was starting to question the meaning of those words anyway.

Wordlessly she nodded, because she couldn't stand the way he looked at her like he was about to lose her. She laid her hand over the portkey, looking at each of the faces around her. Some who didn't deserve to be involved in this—people like Lavender and Ginny and Lily, who had nothing to do with this at all but were still in the middle of it. People like Ron and Harry who only had something to do with it because Hermione asked them to.

It was her own problem. She had gotten involved in the first place. She tried to fix it, with throwing him in prison, and it hadn't worked. In fact, it might've made him worse. Before she had a certain amount of power over him—she could convince him not to hurt those she wanted him to spare, at least to a point. But now he was unhinged, he was crazed, and he hated her. He would kill her if he could, and if he couldn't, he would kill the people she loved until he got to her.

She didn't want to give him what he wanted. But she didn't want to involve anyone in her own war.

"Everyone ready?" James asked.

At the last minute, Hermione pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry," She said desperately, and she thinks Harry might've been about to say something but they were gone before he could.

She took a deep, calming breath, trying to collect herself. She was a fool, she was foolhardy and ridiculous. She had no business facing Tom Riddle on her own and she knew it, not now when she had no sway over him. He had spent years in Azkaban stewing in his hatred over her. He had said it, hadn't he? He hardly remembered her now.

They took that from him.

Her heat beat wildly in her chest and she thought, maybe, those words meant something else. The Idealistic part of her, the part of her that convinced her years ago that he had a chance at salvation, it sang to her. It told her that he never really hated her—that he never really could hate her, only been stripped of every happy memory he had of her until there was nothing left but pain and betrayal to be associated with her.

" _That is the first thing they took away from me."_

It was stupid and romanticized, she knew, and it was certainly not the reason she was going back. She was going back because she wouldn't draw this out when it could be brought to a close. But she couldn't deal with Tom Riddle using Gryffindor tactics—she never could. She couldn't barge in and duel him and hope to hell she finds the strength to end his life when its over.

She didn't want to.

She shakes her head, and disapparates.

He's still in her flat when she returns. He's still hovering over his horcrux at the kitchen counter. She feels uncomfortable with the reverence in his gaze, with the way his entire aura has changed since he saw that sitting there. She remembered his mood swings when she had known him years ago, but that wasn't quite as unsettling as this—attempting to kill her, dueling with her, then standing quietly in the room with her in silent awe.

Then again, she remembered how he acted in the chamber, and decided that it wasn't so strange after all. Not for him.

"You kept it." He commented lowly when it was clear that she wasn't going to speak first. She didn't reply at first, not recognizing it as a question until his eyes focused on her, dark and strangely hollow and lost.

"I don't know what you want me to say," She deflected, "That isn't a question—"

"Why did you keep it?" He pressed, his voice raising, his eyes glaring a hole straight through her.

'"I don't know," She lied.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I—" Before she could deny it, his hand slated down loudly on the counter. The noise filled the room, jostling her from her thoughts and rendering her silent.

"Who knows?" He demanded instead. She hesitated, but in the end answered truthfully.

"Before today, no one." She admitted. He breathed deep through his nose, dropping his chin to his chest, bent over the counter.

"Why did you keep it?" He asked again, sounding exhausted.

"I…" She shrugged hopelessly, "I didn't think about it, I just took it—"

"You just took it," He echoed pushing away from the counter to glower at her, "After you betrayed me—"

"I didn't betray you!" She snapped, "You tried to kill me, and you _tortured_ me. You deserved to _rot_ in Azkaban—" He cursed her then, but she was quick enough to put up a shield, already getting used to his speed. He was still impossibly fast, but she was ready.

"Then what is this?" He bellowed, referring to the diary but advancing on her, "Why withhold the one thing that will ensure that I do?"

"You were sentenced regardless," She rebutted angrily.

"By no legal means," He countered. Hermione scoffed.

"As if you care for legalities." She spat, "You speak as if you didn't deserve—"

He threw another curse, likely just to shut her up, and seethed, "I do not care about what was deserved," And almost recklessly, as if he no longer had any control over his own anger, he continued, "I care that it was you." She took a surprised step back, and he matched it with a step forward and an angry curse that she almost didn't shield herself from. "I care that you _wanted_ me there."

"There is a difference," She began, forcing her voice to remain strong, "Between what I want and what I have to do—"

"And you always do what you _have_ to do, don't you?" He mocked, "Did you _have_ to fuck me before—" She threw her own curse this time, not liking the way his face nearly lit up when she did. He stepped toward her, and every advancement was matched with her own retreat.

"Just what are you hoping to figure out?" She implored, "Why I kept your blasted diary? I don't _know_! I was young and in _love_ with you and I didn't want—" Something set off in him at that point, something that spurred him to send two consecutive curses in a row, the second nearly blasting through her shield. She threw back her own, because he was steadily advancing on her and the look in his eyes was strangely disconcerting.

Her back hit the wall—she hadn't realized how much she had been backing up—and he used her brief distraction to expel her wand from her hand. "I didn't want to!" She finally admitted when he stood arms length away from her, his wand pressed against her throat. "But I had no choice!"

"I gave you a choice," He hissed, his lips curling over his teeth in a snarl.

"You gave me the choice to rule," She corrected, "I didn't want that."

"And what about what I want?" He snapped.

Weakly, she echoed his words from before, nearly whimpering, "You wanted _me_."

It was deathly quiet then, Tom still standing with his wand at her throat. No spell was cast, and his jaw twitched wildly as if he were grinding his teeth, his eyes staring resolutely at the point where his wand met her neck. When he finally spoke, his voice was raspy and desperate, and he didn't meet her eyes. "Why can't I kill you?" He asked.

She hadn't realized, until that moment, how many chances he had to kill her. She had chalked up her survival to distraction, to her own push back, even to his own sadistic nature. She had figured that he had wanted to draw it out, and that she had fought him back enough to keep her life. But even in their duels, he had plenty of opportunity—but when had he thrown a killing curse other than that first? As if the more time he spent with her the less able he was to fight her.

Daringly, and because it was her last hope of survival given she didn't have a wand and physical violence never deterred him for long, she lifted a hand to his cheek. Her fingers dragged up his sunken cheek, her fingers sinking into the hair above his ear.

Immediately, he leaned into her touch. His wand cluttered to the floor, falling through his limp fingers, and something between a groan and a whimper worked out of his throat. She hadn't stopped to consider how starved he might be for touch—how long had he been cooped up in that cell without anyone? With only the dementors to keep him company? But it seemed obvious, now, the way he pressed his face into her hand and sucked in deep, haggard breaths as if he were panicking. Her own eyes welled with the tears she knew he would never cry, and she lifted her other hand so she was cupping both his cheeks.

She had forgotten how it felt to touch him. She had forgotten the way her skin thrummed against his, the way their magic entwined so tangibly. It wasn't enough, then, just to hold his face in her hands, but he was immobile—almost as if he had forgotten what to do. She lowered one hand, drawing down his arm and bringing it around her back. When he realized what she was doing, he pulled her against him, his hands straining against her back, his nails digging through the thin fabric of her shirt and ruining the flesh of her back. She threaded one hand through his hair and allowed the other to lay across his shoulders. She could feel every choppy, painful inhale rack his body, she could feel his heart beat wildly against his chest. She was crying—not blubbering, at least—the feel of him overwhelming her to the point where she needed some sort of outlet, and her mind decided tears were the answer.

"I'm sorry," She apologized uselessly, relishing in the pain at her back because it reminded her that this was real. "I didn't want to. All I wanted was you, I'm sorry—"

He turned his head, where it was buried in her shoulder, to press his nose into her hair and breath in as deep as his lungs would allow. When he exhaled against her neck, it racked his whole body. She raked her nails through his hair, delighting in the shudders it brought. "Were you ever mine?" He rasped.

"Always," She told him, and his hands moved to lock even tighter around her back, crushing her to him until she could scarcely breath, but then she supposed she was holding him just as tight. "For as long as you've been mine," His breath left him, and she raked a hand through his hair as he struggled to get it back.

He was crazier than when she had last seen him—more unstable, more reckless in his anger. It was likely he had completely lost his mind in that prison and she was too blind to see it, but if she was honest with herself, she was too far gone to care. If he was crazy, then perhaps she was too, because all these years all she ever wanted was him. It was why she poured over books for him when she was young, it was why she always found herself in his presence when she was his student, it was why she always felt so wrong for turning him in. Not because it was the wrong thing to do, but because she had never wanted to do it in the first place.

"I don't want your new world order," She gasped against his neck, still feeling so overwhelmed at the feel of him that she could hardly breathe, let alone speak. "I don't want your war."

"There will be a rebellion," He breathed, inhaling deeply before continuing, "If not me, it'll be someone else who leads it."

She thought of the Aurors she knew, and of Harry and Ron and Dumbledore, and how easy it was to incriminate Riddle. He had been guilty, of course, but how easy had it been to imprison him with little-to-no evidence? Everyone had seen it as good, but Hermione had always felt sick because of it. "They'll fight you," She warned him.

"Will you?" He asked, sounding unafraid.

"You'll give me no choice," She told him, "If you're against Muggleborns—"

"I won't," He said with conviction, his hands spanning her back and holding her against him as if he feared she would fade away. "If you stay, I won't."

"But we need to prove ourselves?" She guessed. He didn't pull away from her, but he did lift his head from her shoulder and allowed her to arch against his hands to meet his eyes. They burned with a different kind of intensity than they had before—one she remembered from the last time he proposed this.

"Anyone you want dead, I'll kill," He promised her, sounding contrite, "Anyone you want alive, I'll keep. I'll make the _world_ for you," Her hands settled on either side of his face, her thumbs soothing over his cheekbones. "If you stay."

She considered it, because she knew that her gut reaction was to say yes, and that could be dangerous. This was war he was talking about, a revolution against the ministry, a competition for power. She hadn't fooled herself into thinking Tom Riddle gave a shit about the inequalities in the magical community, but he was hoping for power, to change everything in order to achieve it. And she couldn't help but feel a bit drunk on the idea that she could change it with him. His ruthlessness could offer them the world, and her idealism could shape it into what it needed to be.

She was never one to care much for power, but she had always cared for society—for the creatures within it. How else could you change the world for them, other than acquiring power?

Knowing that her mind was made up no matter how long she contemplated, she met his eyes, a smile pulling at her lips. "House Elves?" She asked.

He laughed, a strange, breathy, gasping sound that she hadn't heard before. There was something strange about the moment that followed, something that felt a lot like she was making a deal with the devil. He leaned in, fitting his chin in the crook of her neck once more. He pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear and promised, "You and I could rule this wretched world."

"Perhaps make it not-so-wretched?" She offered, and he laughed again, as if she was a child whose dreams were too unrealistic to explain otherwise. As if he found her passions somehow adorable but not at all reputable. She didn't mind, exactly, because she knew she would prove him wrong. And she believed him when he said he would do anything for her—after all, she had thrown him in Azkaban but here he was, wrapped around her like she was his lifeline.

"I think we're even," She said after a moment of silence, "You tried to kill me and I tried to have you sentenced for life."

"In the end, it is always us," He told her. She wasn't sure what he meant, but she didn't have to ask because he continued anyway, "The basilisk couldn't take you from me," He commented, pressing his lips against her throat as he spoke. She didn't feel it necessary to point out that the basilisk was entirely under his command, because she understood what he meant. "Your own righteous morality couldn't take you from me," He pulled his head back to meet her eyes, and his expression was frighteningly passionate. It reminded her of the way he looked when he spoke of power—of taking over the world. "Even the dementors couldn't take you from me."

She realized that he was trying to persuade her. This was the way he looked then he was explaining his cause. This was the version of him that could lead an army and win a war, the version of him who could speak and sway and convince by his expression and conviction alone. She frowned, and when he noticed her change in expression, his nails dug into her skin again. "You are mine," He swore to her.

"I'm not going to run away," She promised. His fingers relented at her back. "I did my duty when I was seventeen. I did the right thing." She ran her thumb lightly across the dark shadows under his eyes and felt very much like she was trying to convince herself. "Now…I think it's time to do the right thing in a different way." He looked a bit confused, like he didn't know what she meant but he wasn't willing to ask for clarification. She gave it to him anyway. "You could fight for a cause, you know." She told him, "Other than power. You could fight for justice."

"I could if you fought with me." He parried, and she couldn't help the smile that stretched across her lips.

"Oh, you are manipulative," She told him, "You're playing on my hero complex."

"Well," A barely-there-smirk graced his lips, "You Gryffindors make it so easy."

She kissed him. And it felt like the world spun wildly out of control for a moment, like everything around her turned to chaos and she was left clinging to him, breathless and dizzy and overwhelmed. He kissed her like he was ravenous, his kisses losing their precision in his desperation, his hands everywhere at once. He groaned against her lips as she dug her nails into his shoulder blades—a bit petty, on her part, because he had already made a likely bloody mess of her back and she figured he deserved the same.

"I love you," She reminded him, and he nodded breathlessly, pressing slow, careful kisses across her cheeks and down her throat. It didn't bother her as much as she thought it would that he was unwilling to say the same. She ran a hand down his back, feeling the notches in his spine, then up his sides to feel the dips in his ribs. "Are you hungry?" She asked suddenly.

"No," He told her—obviously a lie—pressing his lips against hers once more. She laid her hands against his shoulders, noticing the dip in his collarbones, and pushed him back.

"No?" She echoed unbelievingly, "Of course you are—you're—"

"Oh for fucks sake," He hissed, his hands settling on her hips and gripping so hard that it hurt, "Stop mothering me." He pulled her against him, but now that his hands weren't straining across her back, she had more freedom to lean away from him. She felt like she was breaking her back just to meet his eyes.

"Tom—" She started to lecture, but he had spun her around in his arms, pushing her forward until she was nearly bent over the side of her couch.

"Hermione," He rumbled deep in his chest, pulling her upright against him so he could press his lips to her racing pulse as he spoke, "I have waited two years for this." He murmured against her skin, his thumbs hooking in the waistline of her trousers and tugging downward, "I don't," He pulled them down to her thighs, her kickers with it "Want," His hand cupped her sex, and she shuddered as a single finger found its way inside of her. She hadn't realized how much she missed this—how much she missed him—because she had always shoved the thoughts out of her mind. "Food," He finished, curling his finger inside her. She moaned, and almost immediately he withdrew his finger, grabbing at her hips and pushing her forward over the couch so he could push himself inside of her.

It was different than the other times they had been together in that he had lost any semblance of control. She had always attributed it to his love of power that he seemed to prefer to watch her come undone under his ministrations before he sought his own pleasure. He liked to see her submit to him. Now, his movements were hurried and frantic and desperate, not so much about watching her fall apart as simply being within her, of falling apart himself in the feel of her. She was left sprawled over the arm of the couch, one hand desperately clutching at the cushions and the other seeking her own pleasure at her clit as he pounded into her. His hands bruised her hips, his pace was unmeasured and frantic, but she loved it.

She relished in the sounds of his moans, in the feel of his hands, in the sensation of his magic curling around her. She had spent so long feeling sorry for doing what was right—for doing what was necessary—it was unreal that she should be getting what she wants again. She had resigned herself to the fact that he would despise her now, that she had ruined anything they could ever have, and to think that he could still want her—

She figured he was right. In the end, it was always them. If she believed at all in divination, she might've even believed it was fate. And she didn't believe in it, of course, but she figured choice was just as strong an occurrent.

She hadn't reached her end when he had, but she still felt light and airy and wonderful, and was content to go on unsatisfied. She was contented in the way he collapsed over her, the way his body seemed to break under the weight of his climax, and his arms fell over hers, his hands tracing her wrists. He pressed his lips against the back of her neck, his chest rising and falling quickly against her back.

But he still turned her in his arms, settled her on the couch. His eyes didn't leave hers as his hand began to trace circles around her clit, drawing down to dip into her and then back out return to the little bundle of nerves at the top. She fell back across the cushions, her body twitching and squirming under his attentions. Surprisingly gently, his hand found her jaw and angled her face back to his so he could watch her. His eyes jumped quickly between hers, briefly down to her mouth as she bit her lip, but then back to her eyes.

He didn't let her look away, even as his fingers finally drew her to orgasm. His hand slid into her hair, keeping her head still so he could watch her as she came, his eyes burning into hers and breath just as labored as hers—as if he was just as undone as she was, as if everything she felt he felt it, too. She was struck by just how much she loved him—foolishly and recklessly and endlessly. And it didn't even matter if he didn't love her, too, only that he wanted her—and the way that he looked at her made her feel wanted and warm.

For the second time after sex, embarrassingly, she began to cry.

He pressed his lips against hers, wrapping one arm around her waist and lying against her on her little sofa. His other hand brushed at the tears on her cheek. "Stop crying," He ordered her irritably, and she laughed despite her wet face.

"I can't," She told him, a slightly crazed laugh bubbling out her throat as the tears continued cascading. He pulled away to look at her, slightly annoyed, and wiped them off her face.

"Is this just something you do?" He asked her, sneering lightly, "Cry after sex?"

"No," She laughed, "You just overwhelm me sometimes,"

His sneer softened, in a way. He still seemed annoyed at her tears—she couldn't imagine him to have any other response—but he didn't say anything. He didn't seem ready to conjure her any water this time, probably because the last time he had done that she had dosed him with veritaserum. He didn't need to, because she calmed fairly quickly, wiping her tears from her face and setting her hands about his back to trace patterns on his shirt.

They lied there, half clothed, for a long time before either of them spoke.

"There's the issue of my friends," Hermione finally said, "I don't want them to die."

"This is a war," He reminded her, his breath fanning out across her cheek. "If they fight against me, I'll have to kill them."

"But what if they don't?" She asked, "What if I can convince them?"

He lifted his head to give her a withering stare. She admitted, that was a bit of a far fetched idea.

"What if they don't know it's you?" She asked. He frowned. "What if…well, leaders don't have to be seen by everyone. What if you could be the name for the cause, but…not necessarily met by _everyone_." He watched her expression carefully, his thumb stroking back and forth under her jaw. "We would have to change your name," She told him.

"Voldemort." He offered. She scrunched her nose up at the title, and he glowered at her. "Lord Voldemort," He said, more sternly this time, as if her reaction displeased him.

"Is that why Malfoy called you Lord?" She asked him. He raised a displeased eyebrow and she rolled her eyes. "Fine, _My Lord_." She teased him. He leaned forward and nipped at her neck, trailing down to her shoulder, "Voldemort," She mused breathlessly, noticing the way his body seemed to sing at the name, "It is rather intimidating," She admitted. He hummed against her throat. "I'll convince them," She promised, "I'll convince them and they'll fight _with_ you."

He didn't respond, dragging her earlobe through his teeth. His hand settled on her hip to pull her closely against him, and she could feel him, impossibly hard, against her once more. "Aren't you hungry?" She posed the question again.

"No," He denied.

"Shut up, of course you are," She dismissed, pulling away with the intent of going to the kitchen His hand stiffened against her hip, his whole body tensing around her at the prospect of her leaving him. She paused, rewrapping her arms around his shoulders and feeling them sag with something akin to relief. "Not yet," She acquiesced.

His hand slid under her thigh, pulling her legs around his hips. "Not yet," He agreed, sounding oddly pleased with himself.

She had a very long and very complicated discussion to have—likely interwoven with an uncomfortable amount of lies—with her friends. But for the moment, she decided—with his lips against hers—that it could wait.

—

 **Ok i don't even—what the fuck me this turned into a total fucking cheese-fest I'm SORRY OK IM LITERALLY TRASH CAN AND I COULDN'T HANDLE ME BABIES HATING EACH OTHER**

 **im pathetic i knOW OK**

 **anyway wWOOOOWW thank you guys so much so so much for all your reviews! This is n't the last chapter—there will be an epilogue of sorts next chapter and then it'll be the end. This was going to be two chapters but I severely overestimated how many words it would take, so what—in my plan—was going to be chapter 5 and 6 has now morphed into just chapter 5.**

 **ANYWAY idk guys….im so floored with your support tbh I'm kind of nervous about the response like I HATE ENDING THINGS because like….endings are so important and like….ahhh you guys are so supportive and I just don't want to write a disappointing ending idk? This was going to have a dark ending but I just couldn't do it not that cheeseball endings are a bad thing personal I love them but I just? ? ? ? ?**

 **I DONT KNOW GUYS**

 **anyway its not the end yet, this is like the…sort of end. Because next chapter is just like an epilogue sort of deal so….itll still be the same length of all the other chapters and everything but its sort of like an afterthought of sorts ANYWAY**

 **I think i've rammed enough. I LOVE LOVE LOVE you guys so much, some of you honestly leave the most thoughtful reviews like ! ! ! ! I'm kind of blown away tbh I know i keep saying that but I don't think you understand I literally just wrote this because I was like hm I kind of like this idea lets just put this out here like I didn't expect it to get such a response! Any way I'm not going to start tooting my own horn or anything, Just trying to say thank you for everything.**

 **Once more chapter after this! Some dark shit but mostly just…..me being tras**

 **ok anyway bye ilu ok bye**


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione Granger would never get used to ruling.

From the moment she sold her soul to the devil in her living room, she knew she could never get used to this amount of power. It felt wrong to wield it—it felt dirty and tangible in her hands, like some tiny, sentient being desperate to corrupt her, desperate to persuade her to some dark side of ruling—desperate to turn her into something more like Tom.

But the moment she allowed that to happen, she knew the world would turn from some barely peaceful state to one of total war and ruin. Tom would let the world burn if it suited his interests. Tom didn't care for the gentler side of humanity as she did. Tom didn't care about much at all, in fact.

So she strangled the little thing in her hands, smothered it until it couldn't whisper in her ear at night anymore, until she scarcely realized it was still present, squirming in her hands. She told herself she held no power, that she was no different than the girl who had graduated from Hogwarts all those years ago. Even at the side of the man they called Lord—though she refused to be called Lady—she reminded herself that they were one wrong move away from losing it all.

It kept her grounded. It kept her sane. And—most importantly—it kept her good.

Her idea of right and wrong, of good and evil, had become so complicated and overthought that she could hardly understand it anymore. Her original list had become overrun with footnotes detailing exceptions to the rules, crossing out and rewriting and replacing things that were once good and now bad, that were once evil and now good. There were some things that never changed—Hermione never took a life. And when she could, she wouldn't allow those around her to take a life either. She never abused her power—never took advantage of those with less power than her simply because she could.

Tom Riddle did, of course, at every opportunity. And he killed, of course, whenever it suited him. And he did, of course, fit perfectly into that little box she had labeled evil as a child, but now—

Part of her knew that this was a prime example of cognitive dissonance—Of knowing that there is a gap between what she does and what she knows is right, and so she desperately tries to offer reasons for this discrepancy.

If he had been left to his own devices, she was certain it would be worse. Muggleborns, for example, would either have been exterminated or kept as slaves—much like House elves had been (and still were, if she were honest, but she had to listen to what they wanted and work around that). He wouldn't have cared for equal opportunity for Werewolves, or for fair work and pay for House Elves, or for anything other than stroking his own ego by allowing himself all the power and torturing anyone who stood against him to prove it.

But then, he probably would have lost the war if it weren't for her, so she had to wonder if she played a more sinister role in this new world order, regardless of her noble intentions.

She had built most of his army, after all. All he was before was a strong, powerful, charismatic man with a way with words and a passion that was contagious. But that was all. She offered him a cause—she offered those who may have sided against him a chance for utopia. She drew in the underdogs, the downtrodden, the lonely and forgotten, and she promised them salvation. She found, in some moments, that she would speak to these people who she promised to fight for and would feel very much like Tom for a moment—caught up in the passion of her movement—the one she had dreamed of ever since she had become aware of the magical world.

That was most likely why she began altering her idea of good and bad. Because surely it was bad for Tom Riddle to torture the Malfoys into offering their elves clothing to set them free, so that they could join their cause without worry of turning against their masters. Surely it was wrong for Tom Riddle to threaten and blackmail and hurt the purebloods that would otherwise stand against them—but it worked.

And she had very little patience for the bigoted, anyway.

In the end, it was thanks to Hermione's bleeding heart—as Tom so often referred to it as—that they were gifted with a formidable army. And it was thanks to her bleeding heart that they had the aurors on their side.

Convincing James and Sirius—convincing all of her friends, really, but especially those linked to the ministry—had been difficult at first. Even harder when Tom's face inevitably got out and they suddenly knew that Tom Riddle was not dead, as she had originally claimed, and was very much alive and at the head of the cause she begged them to join.

Yes, it had certainly been difficult, especially when they knew her to be a liar.

But Remus had joined. Partly because of bribery, she assumed, because one thing she strived to provide was Wolfsbane for those who wanted it—and of course he did—and partly because she promised things that he likely hadn't dreamed of attaining since he was first bit.

He wasn't an auror with his friends because of what he was—because of something that he couldn't help being—and that was something that had always disgusted Hermione. It was something she promised to change, should they win.

And then, it wasn't long before his friends joined him as well—and then, after, her friends as well. It didn't change the fact that, to this day, Harry still doesn't believe everything she says simply at her word, but they're alive, and she didn't have to fight them, and that's all she can rightly ask for. Sometimes, she feels like they're all just waiting—waiting with wands clenched in their fists, with spells tucked under their tongues, ready to fight when it all falls to pieces. Waiting for Tom Riddle to inevitably turn against them. But then, she sometimes feels as if she's waiting, too. Waiting for it all to come crumbling down around her.

But, a year has passed since their victory, and it hasn't happened yet. She clings to the hope that it won't happen soon, either. Instead she would remain on the precipice of what could be a newer and greater society, or its downfall.

And it was a fine line.

Tom couldn't be changed, of course. For all of Dumbledore's faith, in the end, Voldemort would remain every bit as vicious and cruel as he was the day he tortured her in his classroom, but as Hermione was coming to understand, his viciousness could be curbed, and at times, redirected. She had to be careful of her own anger around him, because he would take it and exacerbate it as much as he could.

She made the mistake of fuming about the French Minister—who was a sexist, ignorant douchebag—and she had found him within an inch of his life in their bedroom.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She asked, rushing to the minister—who spat blood at her, spitefully—and healing him.

"You care?" Tom asked her disbelievingly, "I seem to remember you loathing this man."

"Of course I loathe him!" She snapped, brushing Tom's hands away from her when he tried to pry her off his prey. "But you can't torture anyone that you—"

"Would it appease you to know he was preparing for war with us?" He asked, pointedly fixing his cold gaze on the man in question.

It hadn't, but it had at least appeased her worry that he had done it entirely for her. She didn't want to live with the worry that anyone she ever complained about would be killed.

They obliviated him, in the end, but she was certain the nightmares would remain.

He reminded her often, of his more monstrous tendencies. He delighted in it—in reminding her of the horrible things he did, the horrible things he enjoyed doing. In the aftermath of battle and in the aftermath of torture and murder he was the most amorous, his nails biting into her skin and his breath fanning across her throat as he rasped that she was so righteous, that she was so good. She thinks it was some sort of kink of his: Corruption. He liked the thought of corrupting her—or, if at some point she was incorruptible, to at least know that she had been corrupted enough to still have him.

Sometimes she hated it only because she liked it so much. Sex with him was always dirty, it was always rough and desperate and the never-ending push and pull of what's right and wrong tearing her apart until the only thing she can be sure of is the way it feels when his fingers slide between her legs or his lips latch onto her shoulder or his teeth carve patterns around her throat. She hates it because she needs it and she hates it because he needs it to.

But its the aftermath she loves.

When he is spent and tired and his body is limp—wrapped around her, or lying beside her, or on top of her, or below her—when his breath is shaky and his fingers trail unintelligible patterns across her flushed skin. When his eyes, half-lidded and hazy, dance across her face and down her throat. When she can wrap herself around him, still lingering in her climax, still only thinking half-thoughts, and she can feel him without thinking too much or thinking too little—without wondering if she is damned for loving him or if he's saved for wanting her.

In the aftermath she loves him, and it isn't painful to admit.

"Are you alright?" Harry's voice interrupted her distracted musings, and she snapped back into reality. He sat beside her on the Weasley's overstuffed sofa, watching her concernedly. Ginny sat across from them, laughing with their other guests, heavily pregnant. Hermione had become so hopelessly lost in her thoughts she had forgotten she had been in public—let alone attending her best friends' baby shower.

"Sorry, Harry," She apologized, and he waved her off.

"Don't be," He assured her, "You have a lot to think about, I'm sure."

She nodded, smiling quickly and changing the subject. "I'm glad the two of you have the chance to start a family." She said kindly.

"Me too," He grinned, "With the war…it almost seemed like we wouldn't have the chance."

"I'm sorry," She apologized—again—not quite sure why she was apologizing but knowing that she should. He shook his head.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," He told her, "You lied a lot, granted, and you certainly had us wondering for a while there—but…You saw something in Riddle no one else did. It's a good thing you did. The two of you have done a lot of good."

She often forgot the perception of Lord Voldemort that the world had—even her friends. A fierce leader in war but ultimately some sort of…soft-hearted, good-natured leader who led his people to a greater world with the held of his—

Well, with the help of Hermione. Whatever she was.

She supposed none of them were aware of the amount of people he had tortured and killed to get where he was today. She supposed none of them saw him as candidly as she so often did.

It was better this way, anyway.

"What are you two whispering about?" A boisterous voice called, Ron throwing his body into the space between them, lounging out against the couch, practically on top of them. Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

"About our supreme leader," Harry joked, and it was Ron's turn to roll his eyes.

"Oh, not that git again," Ron grumbled, "I don't want to hear Riddle's bloody name—If I never see that freak again it'll be too soon." Lavender, who had followed him over to their little trio and sat in the arm chair to the side, leaned over behind Harry and smacked Ron in the chest.

"Ron!" She scolded, her tone making Hermione almost proud of her, "You should speak of him with respect."

"Actually," Harry cut in, "I was talking about Hermione."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond to that, stuck between denying that she was any sort of leader, or thanking him for something—though she wasn't sure what. Ron sat up and threw his arm around her shoulders, jostling her.

"Ah, right!" He agreed good-naturedly, his surly disposition fading now that the subject of Riddle was gone, "Our new Lady," She scowled and shoved him away. "Have you freed the house elves yet?" He asked teasingly.

"The laws protecting House Elves were passed months ago, Ronald," She said sternly, "You would know that if you paid any attention to politics."

"Boring!" He shouted, laughing loudly as Harry shook his head with his own bemused grin, "How about for your next law," Ron said, drawing her close as if he were telling a secret, "You make it mandatory for work to let you have the day off for the Chuddley Cannon's game—"

"Absolutely not." She intoned, and he threw himself back among the cushions and groaned. She wasn't sure how appropriate it was to get drunk at a baby shower, but apparently that was just how the Weasleys celebrated, as the twins were off in the corner taking shots and Lavender's cheeks were already a pleasant shade of pink. She supposed—at the very least—it could be entertaining for Ginny, who in her current state would certainly not be drinking.

A shame, really, because Ginny could drink any of them under the table.

Speaking of, Ginny was pulling herself to her feet and Harry left them to hover nervously at her side. Irritated, she shooed him away, "I'm only off to the kitchen!" She said, "I'll be right back! Hermione, could you help me?"

"I could help," Harry assured her, and Ginny laughed and took Hermione's arm as she approached her.

"I know," She said, sounding exasperated, "But I never get to talk to anyone without you hovering. Go sit with Ron! I'll be right back."

He did as he was told, looking very tense and fidgety as Ginny waddled away with Hermione's support. She was laughing—not nearly as annoyed as she let on, apparently—and spoke while they were leaving the bustling living room of the Weasley Burrow, "Ron is only mad about Riddle because you were in love with him when you were young and it ruined his chances with you."

Hermione rolled her eyes while Ginny situated herself so she was leaning against the kitchen counter. "Ron is very happy with Lavender." She assured Ginny, unsure where this conversation was headed or what the purpose of it was.

"Of course he is," She agreed, "But Ron holds grudges so long that even he forgets why he's holding the grudge—He might never get over this Riddle thing, but its from petty bullshit anyway."

Hermione hesitated, unsure what the point of this was, and finally said, "I don't care much for what Ron thinks of Lord Voldemort."

"Why do you call him that?" Ginny asked, observing her friend closely, "Why not call him Riddle like the rest of us?"

Hermione eyed Ginny with thinly veiled suspicion and replied, "Respect."

"Respect," Ginny echoed, "And do you call him Lord Voldemort in private as well?"

Hermione blanched. She was careful to keep any private details of her and Riddle's life exactly that—private. It wasn't hard, as Tom wasn't exactly one for public displays of affection, and Hermione was never one to speak of her sexual exploits, so they were left as something like colleagues in the public eye and nothing more. Hermione averted her eyes and said, "I don't see how it should matter what I call him in private." Then followed up quickly with, "Did you want something?" While making her way to the fridge.

"Do we have pickles?" Ginny asked, "They should be on the bottom shelf. I would get them myself but I don't think I'd get back up again if I bent over that far," She laughed, thanking Hermione when she offered her the jar and twisting open the lid. Her mouth was half full when she continued speaking—a habit of the Weasleys, apparently—"Harry told me about what happened with Riddle in seventh year, about how he kissed you—"

"A manipulation tactic, probably," Hermione cut in, not exactly lying because everything Tom did had a certain degree of manipulation. Ginny chewed slowly and regarded Hermione silently for a long while.

"Ron would care," She finally said. Hermione didn't have to ask what she meant, because she immediately continued, "Because he's a prat, but I don't think Harry would care. Or anyone else. We trust you."

"How could you, though?" She asked quietly, a bit desolately. Ginny shrugged carelessly, as if it was a silly question to ask.

"Because you do what's good." She told her. Hermione tied her hair up in a messy bun with the elastic on her wrist, because the room was starting to feel hot and suffocating and she needed the extra air, the extra space around her throat to remind her that she's not being choked. "Regardless of what might be right or wrong, you do what's _good_. We know it. I mean, Merlin, _Remus_ knows it. If it weren't for you, his life would be entirely different."

"It wasn't just me," She argued.

"No, it wasn't." Ginny agreed, "But you played a big part. And whatever Riddle is, a friend or a lover or a…catalyst—we don't care." She stressed, and after a beat repeated, "Except for Ron. But he's a prat."

Hermione worried her bottom lip. "It's complicated."

"Nothing's complicated," Ginny said.

"Everything is." Hermione argued.

"Look—just—" She cut herself off, huffing an impatient breath and reformatting her thoughts. "Do you love him?"

The answer was yes, she did, but it was more complicated than that. It was complicated because she absolutely did love him, but he didn't, and it was complicated because she didn't care. She didn't care if he didn't, or couldn't, or wouldn't. She didn't care that their entire existence together was formed out of death and war and hatred, she didn't care that he sometimes appeared to be evil incarnate, she didn't care that he was sadistic and cruel. She didn't care that every interaction with him was something like a battle, she didn't care that she often lost, she didn't care that even in the tender moments everything felt doomed to end, doomed to die, doomed to erupt and burn and scar.

It was complicated because it was reckless and hopeless and illogical and everything she always loathed and she didn't even care.

"We've been through a lot," She answered quietly after a long moment of thought, "And we…we belong…to each other."

Ginny snorted, "Of course you would say something like that," She teased, "Me and Harry, we…we belong together, but you and Riddle—you belong _to each other_." Her smile was wide and gleaming and fond, and Hermione thought it was such a strange expression to have given the topic of conversation. "I'm not saying any of this to pressure you to tell us," Ginny assured her after a moment, "You can keep it a secret until the day you die for all I care, I just…wanted to say it so—if you do want to tell us—you know that you can."

Hermione nodded solemnly. "Thanks, Gin," She murmured.

"Alright," Ginny said, wincing, "My feet are killing me and Harry's probably had an aneurism we've been in here so long—help me back."

She did, but entering the living room was a very different atmosphere than when they left. In their absence, the Marauders had arrived, but what may have been a happy atmosphere—made crazy by Sirius's usual shenanigans—was heavy and dense and a bit frightening. Harry rushed to Ginny, helping her settle in the arm chair beside them.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked.

"Another bloody war is what's wrong," Ron answered before any of the aurors could explain.

"Wha—?" Hermione started to question, but stopped, turning confused eyes on the three older men in the room. Remus sighed tiredly.

"The French Minister's wife is dead."

Her blood ran cold. "How did she die?" She asked, feeling as if she already knew the answer.

"Murdered," James said, "The French Minister has it in his head that it's an act of war from our side."

It probably was, to be fair.

"I have to go." She muttered, heading toward the fireplace. Harry's hand wrapped around her wrist.

"Wait, Hermione we should—"

"I need to talk to Lord Voldemort," She said, "I need to…discuss…I'll be back—I'll come back to speak with you, just—" She snatched her wrist back and left in a rush, tripping out of the fireplace in her own home and seeing Tom lounged out in the window seat—as if he was expecting her.

"Hermione," He greeted without turning her way.

"Did you kill the French Minister's wife?" She demanded, already knowing the answer but quietly hoping she was wrong. He turned his eyes on her and it was clear by his expression that he thought that was a very stupid question. Stubbornly, she remained silent, waiting for an answer.

"He's put a bounty on your head," He said in lieu of an answer. She rolled her eyes.

"Of course he did," She spat, "You killed his wife—why shouldn't he return the favor?"

"Are you defending him?" He sneered, and she nearly stomped her foot like a child in response to his flippancy.

"Why did you kill his wife, Tom?" She demanded angrily. The use of his name had an effect on him—it always did—and he drew himself forward on his seat until his elbows were resting on his knees.

"When I tortured him," He reminded her, "If you hadn't intervened, I would have killed him."

"That would have made it worse," She pointed out.

"No," He disagreed quietly, examining her defensive stance in the middle of the room, "He threatened you." He admitted.

"He doesn't remember that threat—one that was likely well deserved after everything you did to him—" He glared at her, "Because we obliviated him."

"You obliviated him," He corrected. He was always quick to correct her if she ever shouldered any blame onto him for something she did that she considered a bit unjust—it was just as well, because she really should be admitting to her actions, but it unsettled her just the same.

"So—you killed his wife because of his actions that he can't even remember?"

"I killed his wife as a warning—"

"You wanted to start a war." She accused. He rose from his seat, drawing himself to his full height and gesturing for her to come closer.

"Sit down," He said.

"No!" She refused, "You regret letting him live. You wanted to kill him and you were angry I intervened so now you're starting a war—this is childish, Tom!"

"Sit down," He repeated, harsher this time.

"No!" She refused again, "You can't just start a bloody war whenever you want—you don't need France, Tom!"

"The war was inevitable." He argued harshly, "I just sped the process along."

"Yes," She agreed, "Sped the process along, and threw us into a war that we are not ready for—straight off the back of our last war within England—"

"Sit down," He ordered again.

"Stop telling me to sit down!" She snapped. Apparently fed up with her behavior, he whipped out his wand. He was always so quick to cast, whenever they did have a disagreement that ended in a duel, he always got the first hit. He hadn't cast a hex, though, only swept her into the chair without a word and then knelt before her, his hands encircling her arms to keep her there.

She leaned back in the cushy armchair, bringing her knees up as something of a barrier between them. She was angry—the last thing she needed was to be distracted by his hands or his scent. He drew back slightly and raised a bemused eyebrow.

"Well, I'm sitting," She spat, "What is if you wanted to tell me that I had to sit for."

"I wanted you to calm down," He said.

"Calm down?" She echoed, laughing a bit bitterly, "We are on the brink of war, Tom—you know how much I hate war."

"Yes," He agreed, his hands settling on the armrests as he leaned over her. She was thankful that her legs were in the way, as he could only get so close. "But you also know that it is necessary."

"This isn't necessary," She debated, "This is you being a power-hungry lunatic."

He sighed tiredly—as if the name calling exhausted him—and rested his forehead atop her knees. She hated this tactic of his, mostly because it worked. It wasn't quite as effective when her knees were propped up so high, but still—seeing him knelt before her was bad enough, and then he had to go and drape himself over her lap. She liked the image of it too much—and he knew it.

"I hate it when you do this." She told him, frowning as he pressed his smirking lips against her knee, his eyes locked on hers in a way that was almost mocking.

"Do you?" He asked, knowing very well she didn't. She scowled, and his fingers trailed along the tops of her bare feet—her flats had fallen off, most likely when he spelled her to the chair. When his hands finally wrapped around her ankles and he pressed another kiss to the top her hew knee, she knew he was going to pull her legs away. She pressed her toes against his chest and forced him back.

He looked shocked, almost comically so, his eyes dancing from her foot pressed against his chest and her eyes. "No," She said firmly, once he was pushed far enough back that he was sat back on his feet before her. It wasn't often she turned him down for sex—in fact, she wasn't sure she had ever actually turned him down since his escape from Azkaban. His lips curled ever-so-slightly in a disbelieving sneer. "We have a war to fight, thanks to you."

"The war can wait," He said, his voice deep as sin and raspy, too. It caught her off guard—as it often did—and she allowed him to lean in closer, but gathered her wits about her quickly. She shoved him back so suddenly that he nearly fell back. She stood before he could advance on her again and walked over to her flats, slipping them on her feet as she spoke.

"No," She said again, "You wanted me to sit so you can fuck me and I'll forget about my anger—I'm not _fucking_ you." He looked positively victimized, "We need to return to my friends and for God's sake don't let them know you actually killed the French Minister's wife—let them think that he's simply insane." She grabbed his robes and returned to him, pulling him to his feet and draping them over his shoulders. His hands found her waist.

"Hermione," He rumbled, sounding a bit like a warning but she ignored it, pulling harshly away as she continued.

"Then," She said pointedly, "We need to figure out how to diffuse the situation without an all out war—because we do not have the army, the funds, nor the strength to have another war."

"I could kill him," He offered.

"You can't kill everyone who displeases you," She argued.

"No," He agreed, glowering at her as she walked toward the fireplace and pointedly waited for him to follow, "I can't seem to kill you."

It was a childish comment, and she laughed only because she thought it was so strange that a comment involving killing her could be considered childish. "No, you can't," She agreed, because she knew it would piss him off, then gestured toward the fireplace. He stalked up to her, and she was ready to enter when his hands found her arms again. She glared up at him.

"I do love it when you're angry," He admitted, his eyes flashing dangerously, "But I am not fond of the disobedience."

"I didn't realize I was meant to obey you," She quipped, and suddenly his hands were on either side of her jaw, holding her still as he leaned over her. She thought he might kiss her, and she clutched at her wand, ready to curse him if he did. But suddenly a strange expression came over his face, and he pulled away.

"No," He said, "You aren't." Then he entered the fireplace and waited for her to join him.

She did, after a moment of confusion, and they were suddenly back with the group. They were crowded around the dinner table—which had been cleared of food and gifts and now lay empty save for the proclamation of war in the center.

"Good," Harry sighed, "You're back."

"Yes," She agreed, "With company." It was a useless comment to make, because anyone would have noticed Tom's imposing presence, but her introduction still had a tangible effect on the atmosphere of the room. It was quiet, and it seemed like they were unable to make up their minds if they should be welcoming or distant, because after all, this was Lord Voldemort. A man they had imprisoned and then fought a war for and now served under. It was a complicated relationship.

Tom and Hermione sat at the crowded table, squeezed in amongst the Weasleys and the Marauders. Ron was the first to speak. "Did you kill her, then?" He asked.

"No," Tom deadpanned, "I did not." An absolute lie, but one everyone seemed to buy regardless. It was somewhat rare for her to be with Tom and with her friends at the same time—she usually worked as a sort of go-between. The Marauders would meet with Tom often without her, as they were aurors—which had become little more than another term for soldier, now—and Tom was more ready to deal with war than she was. But otherwise, she worked between. On the rare occasions when they were all together, she always found the dynamic fascinating.

She forgot, sometimes, how powerful Tom really was—how much respect he commanded. It was different, when it was only the two of them. It was different with her.

Then again, maybe not so different. Maybe just…more explosive.

"We need to talk strategy," James said, "About how we're going to deal with this threat."

"There's no threat if he's dead," Tom suggested point blank. There was a brief pause before Ron spoke.

"Alright, are we bloody sure you didn't kill the wife, then?" He asked, flinching when Lavender no doubt stomped on his foot.

"Yes, we're bloody sure," Hermione snapped, "Are you going to help, or are you going to continue speaking out of your—" She might've continued with expletives, but Tom's hand had suddenly fallen on her thigh, and the gesture was so strange and unnatural that her words caught in her throat and her nails dug into his wrist. His rough fingers wrapped around the bare skin of her thigh, hot and heavy and surprising because—Tom Riddle did not touch her in public. Sure, it was under the table, and they were pressed so closely together at that crowded dinner table that no one would dave noticed if his hand were in her lap instead of his, but—this was something he just…didn't do.

She might've drawn blood from his wrist but his only reaction was to tighten his grip on her thigh, his fingers dwelling much to close to the place where her thighs meet.

"He has a point," Sirius admitted with hesitation, gesturing to Tom, "If the French Minister really is unhinged, maybe its better if he's dead?"

"No," Harry said, "We can't just kill him because he's crazy and thinks we killed his wife—"

"Thinks Lord Voldemort killed his wife," Ron corrected, and Tom's fingers twitched and shifted and dragged up the inside of her thigh and—why did she had to wear a skirt to this blasted party? She pulled at his wrist but he didn't pull away, his fingers sliding past her underwear and—

"If we kill him, who's to say someone else won't take his place who wants a war, too?" Ginny offered, her hand tracing distracted circles around her swollen belly.

"It would buy us time," Remus admitted, "So even if there is still a war, we have the time we need to be ready for it."

"If he's dead, and we place someone we want in office, there would be no war," Tom commented, and she was a bit _furious_ that he should sound so calm when his fingers were doing _horrible_ things to her under the table.

"And I suppose you have someone in mind?" Ron asked, and at his input—because, for some reason, Tom reacted very strongly to the reminder of Ron's presence—his finger dragged up her slit. "Very Slytherin of you," Ron sneered, "Are we sure you didn't kill the wife?" Tom's nail scraped against her clit and she couldn't stop the sharp pull of air between her teeth.

"'Mione?" Harry started, looking ready to ask if she was okay and she most certainly _was not_ okay by any means.

She shoved her chair back, his hand falling away, "I need to speak with Tom in the kitchen," She said, ignoring the baffled looks from her friends and not noticing that she had just called him _Tom_ in front of everyone. She stood, hooking her foot around the leg of his chair in order to drag it out from the table. He looked up at her through his lashes, looking calm and cool but also very _pleased_ , and she bit back a sharp retort. "Now, please," She seethed. He stood and silently followed her into the kitchen.

She slammed the door shut, brandishing her wand to lock and silence the room—because damn it, she gives up—and drops her wand on the kitchen counter. He smiles, standing before her like he's won, looking at her with thinly veiled amusement as if her anger was nothing to him. "What is this?" She sneered, "Punishment?"

He took a step toward her, reaching for her, "Did it feel like a punishment?" He asked. She placed her hands against his chest and shoved as hard as she could. He hadn't been expecting it, because his back suddenly collided with the wall behind him and he stared at her with some sort of gleeful shock.

"I am trying," She seethed, stepping closer to slip her fingers around his wand and place it back with hers— he didn't move a muscle to stop her. "To fix your problem so we aren't ruined by a war you started."

"The problem is solved," He assured her, his hands sliding around her waist and drawing her nearer.

"By murdering the minister and appointing someone under your control so that France is yours?" She surmised.

"Yes," He agreed, "No war necessary." She clenched her jaw, ignoring the goosebumps that rose along her flesh while his fingers trailed along her back. "Which you would know," He said, pulling her closer. "If you weren't so set on being angry with me."

She glared spitefully. "You're infuriating," She told him, "You don't need France."

"But I _want_ France," He told her, pressing her against him, sliding his hands underneath her top so his fingers met the bare skin of her waist.

She rolled her eyes. "You're infuriating," She told him again, and she kissed him.

They turned so her back was at the wall instead, his body caging her in, his lips meeting every frantic, furious movement of hers. He drew her lower lip in between his teeth and bit until he drew blood, smothering her whimpers with his lips and his tongue. They didn't have their wands, so they were left to strip clothing away piece by piece, unable to magic it away and unwilling to part long enough to collect their wands to do so. They never entirely undressed—her top was gone and her knickers, his belt was thrown away and his shirt half unbuttoned and untucked—but, as was often the way in their trysts, they were too impatient to fully undress.

He lifted her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist and her hands settling on his shoulders. His teeth dragged down the column of her throat, his hands bruising her thighs as she arched her back and bucked her hips against his. "You're disgusting," She moaned, "You shouldn't be touching me in front of my friends."

"You're the one who dragged me out so you could fuck me in their kitchen," He laughed darkly in her ear, his thumb pressing against her clit.

"You're a bastard," She told him.

"Yes," He agreed, dragging out the final consonant when he finally sank into her. Her nails sank into the skin of his back, dragging red lines over his shoulder blades as he pounded into her. He pulled at her thighs, his fingers gripping her so tightly she was sure she would have bruises shaped like his hands when they were done, but she was leaving marks of her own—marks that bled, marks that would seep into the white of his shirt, marks that would scar.

One of his hands sank into her hair and pulled—not to look at him or to kiss him because his teeth were sinking into her shoulder, but almost as if he needed something to hold on to. His hips drove violently into hers, every thrust was jostling and every stroke send her head spinning. She cried out when she came, her nails relenting on his back as her hands found purchase at his shoulders. He came not long after she did. His hair had fallen over his forehead and she ran her fingers through his scalp to drag it back into place. He pulled his head away from her shoulder when she ran a finger along his back where her nails had broken through skin. She brought her hand around for him to see her blood-stained forefinger.

"Sorry," She apologized, but she wasn't. He eyed her hand for a moment where it hung between them, before allowing her legs to drop to the floor. One arm remained wrapped around her waist, and the other long-fingered hand wrapped around her wrist, drawing her finger into his mouth. She felt his tongue swirl around it and that heat started building up in her stomach again.

"My friends," She reminded him breathlessly. He had the audacity to roll his eyes, but still pulled away, righting his pants and rebutting his shirt. She pulled her knickers back on and her top, gathering their wands from the counter and retuning his, using her own to clean his shirt where the blood had seeped through.

"I'm still angry at you," She reminded him, "The next time you decide to kill a politicians wife, the least you can do is warn me of the possible repercussions. So I don't have to find out via a declaration of war."

He nodded solemnly. He looked a mess, and she was certain she did, too, but they had already been in the kitchen long enough and it was probably time they returned. She smoothed a hand over the creases of his shirt.

"We won't kill him," She told him, "I want to find another way."

He nodded again, staring down at her with something akin to warmth. His thumb dragged across her lower lip, and it stung, reminding her of the feeling of his teeth. "I know you do." He murmured, looking strangely fond, his eyes matching the expression Ginny had in the kitchen talking about Hermione's phrase—they belong to each other.

"You won't kill him?" She asked, because her phrasing offered too much room to roam.

"I would do anything you asked me to," He reminded her, and a smile pulled at her lips.

When they entered, everyone at the table turned suddenly to them. They all looked a bit terrified, wide-eyed, like they weren't certain that both would be coming back unharmed. It seemed they were set to assume they had been in a fight. The only outlier was Ginny, who looks utterly mortified, so Hermione ignored her.

Instead, she glared venomously at Ron, and said, "He didn't kill the fucking wife."

Ron nodded silently, and they continued the meeting.

Tom's hand settled on her knee and strayed no further.

—

 **HI**

 **Thank you all of you so so so so so so so SOOOOOO much for reviewing, favouriting, and following this story! I mean 200 REVIEWS! IN JUST A COUPLE WEEKS LIKE that is so unreal and i want you guys to know—if I haven't made it clear already—that I reeeeaaally appreciate it!**

 **I know some of you want me to draw it out longer—and that is so nice! And to be honest, there's probably stuff that I could do to draw it out a bit, but…I just really want to end it here, if that makes sense. I feel like this is a good place to end it…..I feel good about this ending. And I like the idea of leaving a bit up in the air so you guys can kind of…have a bit of breathing room? I'm not making any sense I just don't want to beat this story into the ground, and 50,000 words is more than I originally planned and i think its enough. idk. hopefully its not a shitty ending idk? I'm really bad at endings ok? I'm sorry?**

 **anyway I dont think I can accurately describe how fun this was to write 1. because i like the storyline but 2. because of your reactions like! you guys are so wonderful and supportive and excitable and it was just really cool HEARING FROM YOU GUYS and some of you even message me on tumblr and stuff and like THATS SO COOL NO ONE TALKS TO ME ON TUMBLR SO I WAS LIKE ! WOW ! WOW!**

 **anywayyyyy**

 **I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH AND THANKS FOR SUPPORTING ME! I'll see you soon with another tomione because I'm actually writing another one why do I do this I am such utter trash I h8 myself ok bye**

 **(also i am very tired its 2 AM please tell me about any strange typos! i don't get annoyed i get some people like oh sorry i don't want to offend you but you had a typo and I'm like NO! I AM NOT OFFENDED I AM ACTUALLY IN YOUR DEBT so yeah help a girl out pls)**

 **ok i love you by for real now ok bye**


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